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'’olums 1, No. 17. July 20, 1882. Issued Weekly. Annual Subscription, 52 Numbers, $8^00. 


THE DARK COLLEEN. 


CHAPTER I. 

WASHED ASHORE. 

D awn is breaking on Eagle Island. The mighty Atlan- 
tic stretches around in one monotonous half-circle 
rimmed with a faint pink line, but far away to the east, 
rising cloud-like on the horizon, is the glimmer of the Irish 
I coast. 

i Overhead the sky is flecked with morning-mist. Masses 

of dark slate colored cloud, shot with rdny gold, float up 
one by one from the east, disclosing behind them a sky 
of burning crimson, faintly shaded with a vaporous veil. 
The sun, rising slowly over Ireland, shines across the sea 
to Eagle Island. 

I The slate-colored clouds have passed across the sky, the 

mist is scattered like smoke and blown seaward, and the 
blight rays beat down upon the basaltic crags of the 
island, burnishing them to a mass of sullen crimson and 
gold. 

Stand upon the highest crag and gaze around. 

The waters of the ocean heave up in huge dark swells, 
here and there troubled, broken, and crested with boiling 
surf; hissing and foaming as the waves roll shoreward, 

' until breaking with a roar upon the outjutting crags and 
rocks, they send their clouds of vapor up to heaven. 

There was storm last night. A roar as of distant thun- 
der still fills the ears, while the waters rise and fall with a 
troubled pulsation 


s 


THE DARK COL LEEK. 


A land of sea and sky. Nothing above or around to 
relieve the vision, save that dim shadow of the mainland. 
All is solitary and sad. 

As the sun rises higher and higher, white mists gradu- 
ally arise from the surface of the_ sea, and slowly ascending, 
blend with the fleecy clouds which hover on the peaks and 
float away into the burning blue. 

Calm is on the ocean, and calm is on the land. 

The island itself is revealed fresh from the dewy baths 
of morning. Crags, mountains, glistening peaks that point 
to heaven ; stretches of green pasture and growing corn, 
black moors and wastes of heather ; streams and mountain 
lougns glimmering before the eye. The sides of the moun- 
tains are torn into craggy dells, through which the torrents 
creep ; and here and there amidst the openings in the 
granite crags are glimpses of emerald where the sheep and 
goats creep small as white . mice. P'ar below the land 
stretches in an even sweep of grass and heather, broken 
up by crags and boulders and loose stones, 'fo the south 
of the island fantastically shapen rocks form promontories 
projecting far out into the sea : some detached and point- 
ing needle-like to the sky, others topped with table-lands 
of grass and heather, which are again enclosed by masses 
of distorted crags, crested with sea smoke and drifting 
clouds. All round the cliffs are terrible, opening here and 
there like huge jaws filled with sharp, cruel teeth. Beneath 
these the sea washes and surges incessantly in and out of 
caverns black as night; — then it is cast back, and the hiss- 
ing foam spreads out upon the water, and the white sea 
smoke, rising high in the air, is beaten into the face of a 
young girl who stands upon one of the highest cliffs, look- 
ing out over the ocean. 

As she stands high in the air, her dress is blown back 
by the breeze which comes in from the sea, and her hair 
foils loose from the white scarf which covers her head and 
if wound about her neck and shoulders. Her skirt, which 
is wrought of homespun cloth, reaches scarcely to her 
ankles ; her feet and legs are bare. 

With the light of dawn upon her dark face, she pauses, 
looking at the sea. Presently she turns, leaps lightlv down 
ihe crag, and, with the unconscious assurance of one who 


WASHED ASHORE. 


9 


is well used to such work, carefully descends the cliff, step- 
ping with sure-footed certainty from one perilous ledge to 
another, until she reaches the shore below. There she 
stands dwarfed to Lilliputian stature, for the great cliffs 
rise behind her, one above another, until they are lost in 
broken clouds and spindrift ; while at her feet along the 
edge of the shingle and on the strand is boiling the white 
surf. Again she looks at the sea, then she turns and walks 
slowly along the shore. 

The tide is rising, for t!ie waves creep on and on, 
further up the strand, until the water almost reaches her 
path ; she does not notice this, but carelessly wanders on 
until, at a turn in the beach, lier path is suddenly blocked. 

From the mainland stretches far out into the sea a 
promontory of granite rock, midway in which an archway 
has been wrought by the incessant washing of the water. 
Just above the archway, the grass grows fresh and green, 
and the cattle feed ; below, clinging to the roof and to the 
cragg}^ sides, grow masses of moss, lichen, and tangled weed. 
The roof is still wet with the spray of last night’s storm, 
and the water falls in great black drops into a pool which 
lies below clear as a ciystal brook. The gate of the 
Moruig Dubh, as it is named, is supported by two massive 
arches of solid granite ; one of which is attached to the 
mainland, the other rising solitary from the sea. The tide 
has risen here, and the girl sees that further progress is 
impossible, for the waves rise up with that troubled throb- 
bing motion which succeeds an ocean storm, wash about 
the columns of granite and basaltic crag, and are sucked 
up between the rocks, and dashed back, a mass of froth 
and spray. She pauses for a moment, watching the tide as 
it creeps slowly up the sand, then she half turns, is about 
to ascend another narrow path leading up to the cliff, when 
she pauses again, starts back, and stares amazed. 

Stretched upon the shore, close to the edge of the sea, 
and only a few yards from where she stands, is a dark 
mass, which, seen from a distance, might have been mis- 
taken for seaweed, or, likelier still, for ocean driftwood 
which had been cast ashore during last night’s storm. On 
closer scrutiny, however, it assumes a human form ; that of 
a m:in lashed hrmly by a rope to a broken ship’s spar. 


lO 


THE DARK COLLEEN. 


Dead ? 

Dead or living, he does not stir, but lies quite uncon- 
scious with closed eyes and face turned up to the sky. A 
young face is his and very fair. The skin is burnt olive 
brown seemingly with constant "exposure to sun, vvind and 
rain. A light soft mustache shades a short upper lip, but 
the chin is bare ; a cluster of bright golden hair falls back 
from a broad low brow. His body is only partially clothed, 
his boots and coat being gone ; and his remaining gar- 
ments are saturated with the salt water. The girl stands 
terrified ; then she runs forward, kneels upon the shingle, 
and looks intently into his face. 

He does not stir. She lifts his hand. It is a small 
hand very prettily formed and very white, but it is grazed 
and cut along the back, and cold as ice. 

Rising to her feet, she hesitates a moment, then stoop- 
ing again, with some difficulty she unbinds the rope which 
is lashed about his body, and putting forth all her strength, 
draws him to a spot a few feet distant where the sun’s 
rays beat ; and finally relinquishing her hold, steps back 
beneath the shelter of the overhanging crag, and watches 
him in silence. 

He lies like one in death ; his left hand clenched and 
full of sand, but the right one open with the palm pressed 
convulsively downwards. 

For a long time he continues thus motionless ; and as 
the tide creeps higher and higher up 'the beach, and the 
day brightens, and the sun streams its hottest rays upon 
the earth, and upon -the man’s face, the look of horror 
deepens in the girl’s eyes, for it now seems certain that 
the man is dead. She creeps nearer, presses her hand 
upon his heart, and sighs a sigh of infinite relief ; for the 
l.eart beats slowly and feebly, the breast is troubled with 
suppressed breathing. The man’s features gradually be- 
come less rigid, a faint color replaces the deathly hue of 
his cheeks, the sun beats more fiercely upon him, his eye- 
lids quiver, then gradually unclose. There is no life in 
the eyes yet, however, for they are expressionless as are 
those of a dead man, and fixed with a vacant stare upon 
the girl’s face. She starts to her feet and draws back 


MOAWA DUiVROON. 


1 1 

Very gradually, as one might awaken from a mesmeric 
sleep, does the man recover his consciousness. He stares 
for a time vacantly at the sky, then he rolls his eyes from 
side to side, and after a time, moves his head. He passes 
his hand across his eyes, feels his dripping clothes, and 
looks at the ocean. His face clouds, his eyes become 
more perplexed, till suddenly, a gleam of understanding 
illuminates his features, and he murmurs faintly: 

“ Mon Dieu! Saint Marie-Jesu!” 

Behind him the girl stands, regarding him with a fixed 
look of wonder. At the sound of liis voice she shrinks for 
a moment into the shadow of the cliff ; then advancing, 
she stands close beside him. 

He raises his eyes to her face, looks at lier half vacantly, 
half wonderingly. He shivers through and through and 
gasps for breath. 

“ Oil en sommes-noiis V he asks quickly, and then 
adds feebly in English, “Where am I 1 ” 

And the girl quietly replies, 

“ You are on Eagle Island ! ” 

The stranger speaks no more ; he looks at her fixedly, 
his eyes grow glazed, his features become rigid, and he 
sinks back swooning, or dying, on the sands. 


CHAPTER II. 

MORNA DUNROON. 

S HE was an Irish peasant girl, and she dwelt amidst 
the lonely crags of Eagle Island. 

It is little known, this island, lying as it does far out 
in the Atlantic, remote from the paths of men ; it is little 
known, and seldom visited, save by great flocks of sea 
birds, which yearly build their nests and rear their young 
undisturbed in the fissures of the cliffs and crags which 
tower up yonder to the sky. 

Thousands of winters have snowed upon it, and thou- 
sands of summers have shone upon it, yet still it remains 
alone and undisturbed, rocked by the sea, blown upon by 


12 


THE DARK COLLEEN. 


the winds, but hard and enduring ; losing nothing, per- 
haps, in being free from the emasculating breath of modern 
culture and modern thought. 

Fortunately, it has escaped the gaze of the compiler of 
guide-books ; and it lies now as it lay thousands of years 
ago, desolate, peopled by strange beings with gloomy faces, 
who have never passed beyond the boundary of its shores. 

Strange and forbidding are these inhabitants of Eagle 
Island, totally removed from common association and com- 
mon sympathy: the men, one and all, dark, gloomydooking 
fishers, with solemn dead eyes which seldom light up into 
joyful laughter ; the women, most of them, black-eyed, 
black-haired brunettes, with the Celtic and the Spanish 
blood mingling in their veins. A race apart with their own 
language, their own manners and customs, and their own 
superstitions. 

Here they religiously believe in the evil eye, the second 
sight, the water spirit, and the wraith, and any one of those 
Herculean fishermen, with the heavy brows and soulless 
eyes, will sturdily refuse to pass over the hills after night- 
fall, because, forsooth, they are haunted by the elves. We 
civilized beings can afford to laugh at such superstitions ; 
we have in fact, almost a liking for the little sprightly shad- 
ows, whom Shakespeare and Drayton have made delight- 
ful to us, and in whom we only poetically believe. But with 
the Celt it is another matter. He has his own ideas upon 
the subject, and he refuses to be moved. He believes the 
“fairies” to be, not the innocent, mischievous creaUires 
of our imagination, but restless, cruel, sin-stained spirits, 
who, being unable to rest peacefully below, have been sent 
back to the earth to pass through purgatory and become 
a scourge to man. Believing them to be evil, he avoids 
them with overmastering dread. 

Quaint in their beliefs as in their way of living, the 
Eagle Islanders have little in common with the world. 
They obey their own laws, they enforce their own penalties, 
and, strangest of all, they serve their own peculiar King. 

Regularly every year, there is chosen from amongst them 
a man of unusual strength and courage, able to take the 
lead amongst the people, and to undertake the government 
of the land. The limit of his simple rule is one year ; if. 


MORN A DUNROON. 


13 


at the end of that time, it is found that he has fulfilled his 
duties satisfactoril}^, he is re-elected, and his reign may 
continue indefinitely ; but should he fail to realize popular 
expectation, he is dethroned at the twelfth month. 

The power with which this person is invested is by no 
means supreme ; on ordinary occasions, indeed, the King 
cf Eagle Island is no whit superior to any of his subjects. 
He is one of themselves, in fact ; he goes with them to the 
fishing, works with them at the nets, and tills his own croft 
of land as they till theirs. But should any dispute arise 
on the island ; should any question of property trouble the 
general peace, the matter is referred at once to the King, 
and finally settled by him. 

From generation to generation, this “limited mon- 
archy” has existed on Eagle Island. The outer world has 
changed and progressed, but these people have remained 
unchanged. The old have died and have been buried 
among the grey stones on the hillside ; the young have 
risen up in their places, following the same occupations, 
tilling the same sad acres, and creeping finally to the 
same graves. As they were hundreds of years ago, so 
they remain now. 

Among the many curious traditions rife on the Island, 
most noteworthy is that concerning the infusion of SiDan- 
ish blood in the veins of its inhabitants. 

When the ships of the great Spanish Armada, after 
having suffered their terrible defeat by the English fleet, 
were flying before the wrath of man and God, scattered 
helplessly on the waste of waters, and drifted on ftom 
doom to doom, many a mighty vessel, crammed full 
of gloriously apparelled soldiers and mighty steeds, was 
crushed into driftwood upon the Irish coast, along which 
innumerable savage eyes were w'atching for their prey. 

Of this wholesale wreckage, Eagle Island doubtless 
received its share, sown as it is on every side with fatal 
reefs and direful rocks. The tradition states that the 
islanders, although they slaughtered many of the survivors 
out of fear, out of pity spared a certain number, and with 
these many Spanish horses which had swum in all their 
glittering accoutrements, to shore. The Spaniards re- 
mained on the island, took Celtic names, intermarried 


14 


THE DARK COLLEEK. 


with the inhabitants, and left behind them a race partly 
Celtic, partly Spanish, in whom were interminged all the 
virtues, and a few of the vices, of both nations. 

So runs the tradition, striking indications of the truth 
of which still remain. On ‘ Eagle Island is still to be 
fr and a breed of horses which for beauty and strength 
almost rival their Spanish progenitors; while everywhere, 
as we have said, the eye may rest on the faces of women 
whose dark olive skins and passionate eyes seem clear 
indications of their Spanish descent. 

Of such a type was Morna Dunroon. 

Her father was a fisherman, a direct descendant of 
the Spaniards, inheriting many of their characteristic 
traits. The coal black hair and eyes and swarthy skin 
indicated his descent, but the fiery temper of the man 
seemed a better indication than all. Broghan Dunroon 
loved power, and with that, in a rude sort of way, he was 
invested. 

For some twenty years he had held the position of 
“King” of Eagle Island, until his right had become so 
established that none cared or wished to question it. And 
indeed he possessed many virtues which admirably fitted 
him for the post. His knowledge of sea craft was great, 
his courage and determination extraordinary, and his 
honesty and veracity had long won for him the confidence 
of the people. 

Many of the traits of Broghan Dunroon had descended 
to his daughter. She had the same dark passionate eyes, 
the same black hair and brown skin; but the fiery nature 
of the Spaniards was tempered in her by an infusion of 
gentler blood. 

Morna was an only child. Many years had passed 
since her mother had been carried away and buried in the 
little graveyard on the hill, where the bones of her Celtic 
and Spanish ancestors had smouldered for hundreds of 
years ; and since that time, the child had been left to the 
care of her father, who had reared her in rough and ready 
fisher’s fashion. In truth, Morna seemed to need little hu- 
man care being rather like the fish and the seals, which 
are born of the elements, reared by them, and given to 
them to sport with at their will. She was left alone, and 


MORN A INTERCEDES. 


^5 

the elements grew familiar to her. Of the far off mainland 
she knew nothing : it was only to her a great, unrealizable 
mystery, and a dream. Eagle Island was her world ; this 
she knew well and passionately loved. 

The sea was her nurse, she grew in its waters, and she 
was strengthened by its fostering breath. She roamed its 
shores day after day, moving from crag to crag, from cave 
to cave, until every spot on the heights and every cranny 
in the cliffs, grew as familiar to her as her own features. 
But best of all she loved to wander down close by tlie 
green water, to watch the towering crags above her, the 
sea birds in the air, the seals swimming around her and 
looking at her with large human eyes, while her face would 
light up with joy, and her cry ring through the cliffs, until 
they laughed and echoed back again. Often on starlight 
nights, little fisher children, and even strong fishermen, 
passing along the high cliffs to their huts above, would 
stand and look down at the sea and listen, whispering to 
each other that they could hear the song of the “Midian 
Mara.” * 

The mermaids were silent down beneath in their silent 
caves, above them the water washed with a monotonous 
moan, but a song with strange echoes rang through the 
cliffs and rose on the silent air. It was only Morna Dun- 
roon. 


CHAPTER III. 

MORNA INTERCEDES. 

A S the stranger sank again senseless at her feet, Morna 
Dunroon bent above him, with troubled, anxious eyes. 
For a moment she remained motionless ; then reaching 
forth her hands, she swept back the dripping hair, and 
eagerly read every line of the fair face ; as she did so 
his eyes opened once more, but this time they were quite 
vacant and devoid of recognition. 

* Midian Mara. Celtic name for the mermaid. 


i6 


THE DARK COLLEEH 


Suddenly the girl started up and listened. 

The roaring of the sea was deep and loud all round, 
but the quick ear of the girl had detected a faint strain of 
music, which was blown towards her through the Moruig 
Dubh — the large arch of glittering sea-surrounded rock 
near which she stood. Her face brightened \ after another 
rapid glance at the stranger, she ran a few yards along the 
beach, and stood close to the edge of the sea. 

As she went, the noise of the music increased, and was 
mingled now with the heavy splash of oars and the sound 
of human voices, and scarcely had she gained the water’s 
edge, when a large cu7'ragh* shot direct through the gate 
of the Moruig Dubh. Six strong giants rowed, while an- 
other sat listless in the stern, and perched in the bov, play- 
ing wildly to the splashing of the oars, sat a Piper, ;lad m 
picturesque rags and white with years. 

Morna uttered a cry of joy ; for she knew that this was 
her father’s boat, and, indeed, he who sat in the stern was 
no other than Dunroon himself. 

No sooner had the curragh cleared the gate and ap- 
proached the spot where Morna stood, than it was fol- 
lowed by six or seven others, each manned with a crew of 
six men, and heavily laden with nets and fish. For despite 
last night's storm, the morning harvest had been good, and 
the piper had gone out with the rest to play the fish into 
• good humor, and only the priest’s blessing was wanting to 
make the happy ceremony complete. 

At another time, Morna would have noted all this and 
rejoiced with the rest, but now her mind was full of other 
things. Standing on the sands, she held up her hands 
and called aloud in Irish. 

Her father answered her from the airragKs stern, and 
the piper waved her a greeting. 

'' Defer ! Dejfer .H she called. ‘‘Come this way to 
land ! ” 

Dunroon addressed the oarsmen in Irish, and with a 

Curragh.— 1\ boat covered with tarred canvass or hide. In form 
it resembles the Norwegian skiff, being long, narrow, and curving up 
into a sharp point at either end. It is invariablv used bydhe fisher- 
men of the north and north- wc.st coast of Ireland." 
t Quick ! Quick ! 


MORAVA IN TER CEDES. 


17 

few vigorous strokes the boat was run upon the beach, 
close to the spot where the girl stood. 

The piper stepped ashore, executing a final flourish 
upon his pipes, while Morna caught hold of the boat’s bow, 
and hurriedly spoke to her father. 

Dunroon rose from his seat and stood up erect. He 
was a man of great height and surpassing strength ; 
dressed, like the others, in a colored flannel shirt and 
trousers which were fastened round his waist with a hemp- 
en band. The sleeves of his shirt were turned up to the 
elbow, and he was wet to the waist with working at the nets. 

When he leapt on to the shore, and approached the 
girl, his dark face was full of a light which was pleasant 
enough to behold. 

Scarcely glancing at the wild creatures who now gath- 
ered around her, Morna took her father’s hand, and said, 
still in the Irish tongue. 

“ Father, there was a wreck last night.” 

Dunroon smiled and nodded his head. The islanders 
were well accustomed to such matters, and had grown 
pleasantly familiar with them. But the girl was more 
gentle by nature. She could not make her reckoning out 
of death and destruction, as these coarse men could do, 
although she had been reared with them and shared most 
of their superstitious beliefs. 

“’Twason the Crag na Luing that she was smashed 
like an egg,” said Dunroon, grimly, in a thick Irish patois \ 
“ worse chance to her, sire’s gone to the bottom, crew and 
cargo, and left only a plank or two to drift on the shore 
for fuel. May the saints send us luck with her for all 
that ! ” — and he crossed himself reverently, and bowed his 
head. 

Morna hesitated, seized by a sudden fear and su.s- 
picion ; then, still without looking at the other fishermen, 
she said in a low voice, 

“ Come, father, come — or he may die ? ” 

Without giving time for further parley, she drew Dun- 
roon along the beach to the spot where the stranger lay. 

The fishermen who had landed followed her, while, 
upon the water, but close in to shore, the other curraghs 
gathered, with clusters of wild faces looking shoreward. 

2 


8 


THE DARK COLLEEN. 


The shipwrecked man had not stirred. He lay still wiih 
closed .eyes and ghastly face, quite unconscious of all that 
was taking place around him. To all' outward appearance 
he was dead ; yet if a hand had been placed upon his 
heart, a faint low flutter would have been perceptible. 

For a moment Morna knelt on the beach, and looked 
anxiously into his face, then rising to her feet again, she 
turned her eyes upon her father. The fishermen were now 
collected in a group around her, their faces dark, and their 
eyes turned upon the unconscious stranger. 

Dunroon looked down grimly upon him. 

“ This maybe is the first driftweed from the wreck 
he said in a hard grating voice, “ and how was it that you 
came by him at all, my collem diibh ? better be milking 
your cows at home than searching abroad for the likes 
o’ 

But the girl answered quietly in a low tremulous voice, 
still wdth her eyes fixed pleadingly upon his face. 

“ I found him here, father, senseless and half drowned, 
and now, see, he seems to be gone entirely. Once he 
opened his eyes and spoke to me, but indeed he could not 
do that same again. Unless we take him quick up into 
the house, he’ll surely die ! ” 

Dunroon’s grim features were contorted, and as the girl 
spoke the faces of those fishermen around grew woefully 
dark. The piper squeezed the last breath of wind out of 
his pipes, and, creeping to the girl’s side, said softly : 

“ Take that dead man into the house is it ? sure ’tis 
yerself that should know better than that, machree 

Morna’s heart sank within her ; for she knew only too 
well the cruel popular superstitions in which the islanders 
were steeped, and, indeed, in which she herself believed 
in precept, thought not, it seemed, in practice. Any day 
before that time if Morna Dunroon had been asked what 
would be the effect of receiving and sheltering a lifeless 
body which had been drifted on to those shores, she would 
have unhesitatingly replied that it v/ould bring misfortune 
to the land, that the crops would fail, the fishing suffer, and 
prosperity cease for those who had cheated the Midian Mara 
of her prey. Even to resuscitate a half-drowned man was 
forbidden. 


MORN A INTERCEDES. 


19 

Morna believed this as she believed the other super- 
stitions, not because her feelings were so blunted as to 
deaden all care for her fellow-creatures. Never before had 
she personally been brought face to face with the fact of 
such misfortune, but now, when she saw the half-drowned 
man lying helpless at her feet, her beliefs and superstitions 
faded away, and her heart trembled with human kindness. 

It was different with those dull-souled fishermen. 

Their beliefs were their gods, and implicitly and dog- 
gedly they served them. As Morna looked into their dull 
eyes and coarse, pitiless faces, she felt that they would lift 
that body and cast it away into the sea, with as little com- 
passion as they would show to a dead or wounded sea- 
bird ; and most dreadful of all, she knew that her father, who 
was indeed no whit more enlightened than his companions, 
would naturally approve their acts if he did not personally 
assist them. She felt herself powerless to act alone, in 
opposition to the wishes of these headstrong men ; neverthe- 
less she meant so to act. The stranger’s face had struck 
her, she felt for him intense pity, and, moreover, all the 
latent determination of her nature was aroused. So when 
they said, seeing her stand silent and pale, 

“ Der h'ien lower., ’tis dead he is intirely, so we will just 
cast him away into the sea ! ” the girl turned and faced 
them. 

“ You shall not touch him ! ” she said quickly. 

The men looked at her in amazement, some frowning, 
many laughing, and others with shrugged shoulders and 
raised brows. Without heeding, the girl continued in the 
same calm quiet voice, 

“ ’Tis only by the mercy of the blessed Virgin herself 
that he has been drifted here, and why should we cast him 
away.” 

“ Why should we cast him away ” repeated a dark- 
looking fisherman who stood before her. “ Why should 
we keep him at all ? ’Tis fair dead he is entirely, with no 
second breath in his body ; he’s no better than a drowned 
man at all, and what for should we be for bringing him 
back to life ? Sure ’twould be a heap better for himself, 
and a heap better for ourselves to let him be. Isn’t the 
fishing good? better thqn its been these five years ; and 


20 


THE DARK COLLEEN. 


arn’t the crops coming on, and isn’t it the prospect of a 
fair harvest that we have ? and why should we spoil it all 
by taking up with the likes o’ that ? The man pointed 
to the senseless body, and looked scowlingly into the girl’s 
face. With quiet determination Morna returned his gaze. 

“ I tell you you shall not touch him, Anthony O’Con- 
nor ! ” she said. “ He is not dead I am sure, but if he is, 
why then we will take him to the house all the same, and 
give him Christian burial, and when Father Moy comes 
over he will say a mass for his poor soul ! ” 

The faces around her grew blacker, the heavy brows 
came down. 

“ Who suffers for bad harvests and who suffers for bad 
fishing ? Isn’t it ourselves and only ourselves, and is it 
into the land that we’ll bring this bad luck with a bit of 
flesh that is just fit for the crabs ? The man is dead ; so 
stand aside, for it is at the bottom of the sea itself that he 
will rest this night.” 

Seeing that the girl was obstinate the men made a rush. 
She was swept aside, and, ere she could recover from her 
amazement, a dozen hands had been laid upon the body, 
raising it from the ground and carrying it down the beach. 
Stupified and speechless, Morna looked on. She felt in her 
heart that the deed they were about to commit was mur- 
der pure and simple, though they, in their blind ignorance 
and superstition, did not regard it as any crime at all. 
Although Morna Dunroon shared in a measure their super- 
stitious beliefs, she could not, now it was required of her, 
sacrifice the life of a fellow mortal, even to “ please the 
gods ! ” She stood looking at the men, appalled, horror- 
stricken. 

Suddenly she screamed aloud. 

Her quick eye had caught a convulsive movement of 
the stranger’s body, as he lay in the fishermen’s arms. She 
sprang quickly to her father’s side. 

During the enacting of this whole scene, Dunroon had 
remained in grim silence apart, his eyes wandering from 
the faces of the men to that of his daughter. He seldom 
interfered in the affairs of the land unless he saw that in- 
terference was specially needed, and he did not now con- 
sider that to be the case. Had the stranger remained 


MORiVA INTERCEDES. 


1 \ 


throughout senseless and half dead as he had at first ap- 
peared, we fear that Morna’s prayers would have had little 
effect in moving her father’s pity, for, much as he loved 
the girl, he was scarcely willing to sacrifice on her account 
the prosperity of Eagle Island. 

“ Father ! father ! — see ! the man is alive 

Dunroon looked at the man. The fishermen stood now 
close to the edge of the sea ; and in their arms the stranger 
lay passive, but, as Dunroon looked, the body quivered 
again. With two strides he was amongst them, and his 
broad hand was laid firmly on the stranger’s arm. 

“Sainted Mary ! ” he cried, “ the man is living — leave 
him here, I say.” 

The men paused and looked irresolute. If Dunroon was 
not given to interfere, he had a right to do so ; they them- 
selves having invested him with that right. He was their 
leader, and what he said they must adhere to. But in the 
present instance they seemed in no way inclined to yield, 
for they retained a firm hold of the body. 

“ Sure there’s no second breath in him at all, and that 
you may see yourself, Dunroon.” 

But Dunroon’s heavy brow came down. 

“ Leave him there ! ” he cried, “ do what I say ! ” 

“ Devil a bit,” was the dogged reply, “ ’tis we that know 
what we’re after doing, better, maybe, than the likes o’ 
you 1 ” 

The insolent look on the faces of the men aroused the 
fisherman’s wrath. With a great oath he clenched his fin- 
gers more firmly around the stranger’s arm, and glared at 
the crimson face of the speaker. 

“ Let go yer hold o’ this man, I say — the one that casts 
him into the sea shall follow after, I declare to God ! ” 

Instinctively the men shrank back, one and all, and the 
stranger was laid upon the ground. Then without a word 
they turned, and moved toward their boats, uttering, as 
with one mouth, their general prophecy of evil. 

. For a time, Dunroon stood with a half vicious, half- 
sneering expression on his face, and watched them go, then 
he turned to Morna ; but the girl, quite unconscious of his 
presence, was kneeling again by the stranger’s side, and 
looking into his face. 


22 


THE DARK COLLEEN. 


CHAPTER IV. 

EMILE BISSON. 

A lthough Captain Bisson had sailed the seas for 
some ten years of his life, he knew as little of the 
world and humanity in general as those people who, during 
the whole of their existence, travel scarce a hundred miles 
from their own thresholds. True, he was familiar with one 
or two unclean seaports, their dingy offices, and their vile 
dissipations : he had been once to Paris, and had danced 
at the Mabille ; he knew every festive haunt in Brest, and 
every drinking tavern in Londonderry ; but when he was 
not interviewing shipowners, or following his amusements in 
gloomy slums, he was simply running to and fro on a waste 
of water, to and from France and the North-west of Ire- 
land. 

He was a well-trained seaman, though he had none of a 
seaman’s rough ways. He was of gentlemanly parentage, 
and part owner of the “ Hortense,” which he had just suc- 
ceeded in sending to the bottom of the sea, with all its 
crew and all its cargo^ while he, by some merciful interven- 
tion of Providence, had been cast, like so much driftweed, 
upon the shores of Eagle Island. 

On that night when the “ Hortense,” driven before the 
north-westerly gale, had struck and split upon the sharp, 
jagged teeth of the Crag na Luing, Captain Bisson had 
given himself up for a dead man ; but in his frenzy at the 
last, he had fixed himself securely to a loose spar, and had 
cast himself, praying hurriedly, into the waters. At that 
monrent his reflections had turned affectionately upon 
Emile Bisson, and he thought it a pity that so useful a 
member of society, and such an ornament to the world, 
should be suddenly and unexpectedly annihilated, or 
transported to eternal paradise : he had not decided which. 
Neither of these events were destined to happen ; and the 
Captain was decidedly gratified, when on opening his blue 
eyes, after a lapse of seeming annihilation, he found that 
he had been drifted to dry land, though he would have 


EMILE BISSON. 


n 

been better pleased on the whole, had he found himself on 
a soil more civilized than that of Eagle Island. 

Of the Island itself, the Captain knew nothing; he only 
knew it by repute. Once or twice when the “ Hortense’^ 
had been becalmed in the Atlantic, and Bisson had been 
sweeping the horizon with his glass, he had seen a dim 
outline of these cliffs and crags, wrapt in a hazy mist, and 
canopied by a bright blue sky ; but, of course, he had 
always regarded the place as one to be avoided, sown as it 
was all round, his chart told him, with dangerous reefs 
which had sent many a mighty vessel to its doom, and 
inhabited no doubt by a race of savage “kernes,” who, 
according to vague nautical tradition, thought no more of 
slaughtering those seamen who were wrecked upon their 
shores, than they did of eating their daily food. When- 
ever the “ Hortense ” came near the inhospitable and dan- 
gerous coast, he had invaribly given her plenty of sea- 
room, and he never could quite understand how it was 
that at last, despite all his precautions, she was drifted 
down upon the Crag na Luing. 

When he found himself upon the fdiores of Eagle 
Island, the Captain’s first feelings were not of tlie pleas- 
antest kind ; believing as he did, that he was now in the 
power of savages, and that his lease of life might probably 
be short. Indeed, his anticipations might in all prob- 
ability have been verified, had he fallen into less gentle 
hands than those of Morn a Diinroon. 

All the pity and tenderness of her nature had been 
aroused by his helpless condition, and partly, perhaps, by 
his handsome face, which had fascinated many another 
before. The handsome Captain was much sought after 
by the pretty girls of Hantour, where he had been born 
and reared, and many of them would have been only too 
glad to secure to themselves his heart and a share of his 
share in the ownership of the “ Hortense.” 

For Bisson had pleasing manners and a pleasing ex- 
terior ; not even his bitterest enemy would have denied 
this. He was tall, broad-chested, with powerful legs and 
arms ; on his head he displayed a thick mass of bright 
golden hair, which many a maiden might have envied him, 
and which even constant exposure to salt water had not 


24 


THE DARK COLLEEN. 


altogether spoilt. His eyes were of the brightest blue, and 
very soft and gentle in expression. A phrenologist would 
have objected to his forehead, a physiognomist would have 
disliked his eyes and lips, but over all these was thrown 
the light of a smile as lovely as sunshine, of that sparkling 
good humor which is only to be found in the best of 
Frenchmen ; so that, when his white teeth gleamed in the 
gayest of laughter, and his low deep voice murmured with 
the most musical of Breton accents, the Captain was irre- 
sistible, and exercised a fatal spell over the hearts of 
whatever women he chanced to meet. 

But Bisson was not a marrying man. He worshipped 
his species collectively, not individually. 

Instead of-taking to himself a wife and cooping her up 
like a caged bird, he preferred to sail the seas a free man, 
with the prospect of loving eyes to gaze upon him, loving 
arms to welcome him, in evei’y sea-port town. Up to the 
age of five-and-twenty he had retained his freedom, crushed 
many a hope, and well nigh broken many a heart, but that 
smile of his smoothed over every wrong, and that glorious 
physique and musical voice always won him a new welcome 
wherever he went. 

When Bisson again recovered his senses, he heard 
around him a babbling and murmuring, which at first 
sounded in his ears like the washing and surging of the 
sea ; but as he came more to himself he made out dis- 
tinctly that they were human voices, talking lowly and 
hurriedly in a foreign tongue. 

He opened his eyes, and in a dazed, half unconscious 
way, looked about him. 

He found that he was lying upon a bed, surrounded by 
clusters of human faces which crowded about him, and 
looked upon him strangely. Some appeared half fright- 
ened, others curious, others pitying, but all the faces were 
mixed up confusedly in the Captain’s brain \ he could not 
see them distinctly, they seemed at times to be floating in 
air — he was so dazed. For a time he gazed half vacantly 
upon them ; then he closed his eyes again, and relapsed 
into a half dream, while the murmur grew louder, and the 
crowd around him seemed to increase. He did not know 
where he was, nor who these people were, as he had, for 


EMILE BISSON. 


25 


the moment, entirely forgotten all about the strange meet- 
ing on the beach, and the last he remembered was being 
drifted away from the wreck of the “ Hortense ” into the 
boiling sea. 

He opened his eyes again and looked around the 
room. 

It was a long low chamber, with an earthen floor, and 
jet black rafters overhead. There was little furniture in 
it of any kind, but long fishing nets were hanging from the 
rafters to diy, and coils of thick rope lying on the floor. 
Here and there in the corners, weird old witch-like women 
crouched on the floor with their elbows resting on their 
knees and their chins propped in their palms, while they 
gravely puffed at short clay pipes, and thickened the air 
around them with clouds of tobacco smoke. Mingled 
amongst the crowd too were many savage-looking men, 
who gazed at him darkly beneath masses of tangled hair, 
and on meeting his eyes crossed themselves and moved 
away. 

From these groups the Captain again turned his eyes 
on that more immediately surrounding him, and which was, 
on the whole, more pleasant to contemplate. 

A number of girls and children, of all sizes and various 
degrees of beauty; most of them with jet black hair and 
eyes which looked with a wicked expression into Bisson’s 
face. They seemed to be moving hither and thither and 
crowding about him in a swarm, and they spoke incessantly 
in some strange tongue. At another time Bisson might 
have deemed himself fortunate in being surrounded by so 
much youth of the other sex ; and even now, he felt about 
him a pleasanter sensation than he would have done, had 
he been closely attended by those old witches in the back- 
ground ; yet his feeling of enjoyment was materially 
lessened by a sense of probable danger to his own fair 
person. He could not yet understand into what “ Inferno ” 
he had been drifted, nor by what wild savages he was 
surrounded. For all he knew they might be preparing to 
take his life ! 

The bare idea of the thing sent a thrill through him. 
With an effort he raised his head to speak ; but at that 
moment some fresh occurrence took the attention of the 


26 


THE DARK COLLEEN. 


crowd and prevented his murmurs being heard. So he 
lay back again upon the pillow, and fixed his eyes anew 
upon the people. 

As he did so he suddenly saw appear amongst them a 
face which he seemed very faintly to recall. It was that 
of a young girl with jet black hair and eyes. This was 
decidely the pleasantest face to contemplate, and accord- 
ingly the Captain’s eyes dwelt solely upon it as he layback 
languidly upon the bed. 

While he gazed his hazy faculties seemed suddenly to 
brighten. He dimly remembered now all that he had be- 
fore forgotten. This then was the maiden who had spoken 
to him as he lay upon the sands, and told him that he had 
been drifted ashore on Eagle Island ! As he remembered 
the circumstances he closed his eyes and moaned aloud. 

Hearing his moan, Morna Dunroon hurried across the 
floor to the bedside, and bending above his prostrate form, 
said softly in the English tongue : 

“ You are suffering, sir ; maybe you will get some help 
from Doctor Tuam ! ” 


CHAPTER V. 


“doctor” tuam, 


T the sound of the voice, Bisson again opened his eyes, 



which instead of seeking Morna’s face, this time fell 
upon the figure of a man who stood beside her, and who, 
he concluded, could be no other than Doctor Tuam him- 
self. Why he came to this conclusion, the Captain could 
not determine ; for there was nothing in the manner or 
appearance of this personage to suggest medical talent, or, 
indeed, talent of any kind. 

His figure was like the bulk of a tree which has been 
stunted in the growth, and which has soothed its outraged 
feelings by shooting out at all angles ; and when the eye 
travelled up the figure and reached the forehead, it was 
discovered that the owner had had, possibly in early in- 


DOCIOR'^ rUAM. 


27 


fancy, a fall which had left his cranium flat as a pancake. 
No one, not even his kith and kin, could have told how 
tall he was, for he never by any chance stood his height, 
but always crouched down towards the ground, as if he had 
a gieat longing to go on all fours like an ourang-outang, 
but was deterred by a sense of his human importance and 
a fear of shocking the feelings of his fellow mortals. 

Tuam O’Deegan had never travelled beyond Eagle 
Island, and he had no wish to do so ; perhaps that fall 
which he got in his youth had effectually flattened his 
bump of curiosity. He had never even sailed out on the 
sea, but had been content to stay on land, to dry his herbs, 
to practise his spells, for the benefit of the human species. 

So far from following in the beaten tracks of more ap- 
proved practitioners, he effected his cures — which we are 
bound to confess were few and far between — with spells 
and charms, aided by certain herbs which grew in lonely 
spots on Eagle Island. So constant had he been in dry- 
ing his herbs, that he had effectually succeeded in drying 
his own skin, which now appeared as cracked and withered 
and yellow as the skin of a dried snake. 

Crouching in his favorite attitude by the bedside, he 
fixed his keen eyes upon Captain Bisson, as if hi- were a 
serpent endeavoring to charm his prey. 

Suddenly, however, rising as high as he conveniently 
could, he sprang with the fury of a tiger upon his victim, 
and began violently kneading him in every joint and limb. 
Soon his attentions were solely confined to the right leg, 
sundry moans and groans from the Captain having indicat- 
ed that this member was the principal seat of his malady. 
Upon this, therefore, he finally fixed his attention, knead- 
ing it, and pulling it, and compressing it so violently, that 
the Captain, effectually brought to his senses, lay writhing 
in pain, and called “ Tenez, Monsieur , again and again, 
until Morna, moved to pity by the cries, interfered herself 
to prevent the torture being continued. 

But the Doctor was not to be moved. It was long 
since he had had a chance of bringing into practice his 
“ kneading ’’ talents, and he was now determined to give 
them full play. Despite the Captain’s cries, he worked at 
the leg until his own strength was exhausted and his arms 


28 


THE DARK COLLEEN'. 


fell powerle-ss at his side ; then crouching down in his 
favorite attitude again, he looked triumphantly into the 
sick man’s face. 

“ It’ll be in the right leg itself that ye feel the pain ? ” 
he said, in a strong Irish brogue, as he mopped the sweat 
from his parchment brow. 

The Captain raised his head, viciously ground Js white 
teeth, and gazed fiercely at the calm though florid counte- 
nance of his torturer. 

^^Sacre.C' he exclaimed, “malediction, Monsieur, one 
would think so ! ” 

And he fell back passive upon the bed. 

The Doctor smiled, puckered up his withered cheeks, 
blinked his eyes, and asked in the same calm phlegmatic 
manner, still without rising an inch, 

“ Will it be from France that ye came ? ” 

The Captain raised his head again, and looked him in 
the face. 

“ Pardo?!., Mo?isieur le Docteur., what has that to do with 
my leg, which is paining horribly ? ” 

Stepping forward, Morna put her hand on the shoulder 
of the crouching figure. 

“ Tuam,” she said, “ may be you have a charm.” 

“ Maybe I have,” snapped the Doctor, making a 
monkey-like grimace. Then turning again to the Captain, 
he continued his cross-examination without moving a 
muscle of his countenance. 

“ Would it be on the Craig na Luing that she went to 
bits ? — Well, well ! — ‘Twould be in the night-time, too, 
maybe ? — aye, aye. And she would be a tidy size of skip 
likely ? — Ye.s, yes, and maybe ’twas a sailor ye were on 
board, or the Captain itself ? — Well, well ! Now what might 
she be carrying, and where would she be bound .? if one 
might ask a question ! ” 

The Captain ground his teeth again. 

“ del et e?ifer^^^ he exclaimed ; “ but the man is a fool. 
Get you gone, Monsieur ! ” ' 

The Doctor’s parchment cheeks were puckered up 
again, and his small eyes gleamed ; but casting a half-re- 
proachful, half-comical look at the Captain, and still 
crouching down, he moved towards the door, 


DOCTOR ” TV AM. 


29 

The people again flocked about the bed, the hum of 
voices once more filled the room with a far-off mysical 
sound. The Captain lay back, pale and exhausted, with 
murmurs in his ears like the weary washing of the sea. 
The music seemed to soothe his pain, and to calm his 
brain, and for a time he entirely forgot where he was, and 
seemed to be lying in his berth in the ‘‘ Hortense,” with 
the wind wailing above him and the sea lapping at his 
side. 

He had almost forgotten the existence of Eagle Island, 
but he was doomed to another awakening. 

Scarcely an hour had passed, and he still lay in a half- 
dream, half-doze, when to his horror, the Doctor returned, 
this time laden with a perfect pharmacopoeia of his own 
peculiar drugs. Without returning to the bedside, he went 
straight to the fire, and commenced stewing and boiling ; 
suddenly he rushed at his victim, and began swathing the 
right leg in steaming poultices. 

“ Sayweed ! ” he replied, in answer to the Captain’s 
agonized cries. “ Sure ’tis the besht thing going for the 
likes o’ this and he worked away until the leg was 
swathed up like a mummy’s, and Bisson lay sweating from 
the agony endured ; then, again fixing his eyes meaningly 
upon the half-agonized, half-savage face of the Captain, 
and scattering the people like so much chaff before him, 
he moved again towards the door, wildly gesticulating and 
babbling as he went in his own mystical tongue. 

Before him and after him the crowd seemed to melt 
away like smoke, until the room was entirely cleared of 
all save two, Broghan Dunroon and his daughter Morna. 

The girl sat in the middle of the room, with the glaring 
light from a torch of bog fir flashing into her face. She 
was busy at work upon some coarse cloth, and her head 
was bent down, but now and again she would pause, raise 
her eyes, and look, in a strange appealing way, towards 
her father, who sat in a distant corner of the room, grimly 
smoking his pipe. 

What these looks conveyed, Bisson, who was watching 
her half-dreamily from the bed, could not determine, nor 
could he puzzle his brains just then to discover, but he 
noted the quiet, gentle expression of her face ; her beauty 


30 


THE DARK COLLEEN. 


acted as a sedative upon him, and looking upon it he soon 
fell into a quiet doze. 

He slept and dreamed. . . . 

He thought he was again on board the “ Hortense,” 
tying in his berth, while the ship rushed on through a 
rising sea. Then suddenly he felt her crunch and split, 
and the waves rushed in with a hiss and a roar, and he 
was swept away amongst the floating ddbris, helpless, 
clinging desperately to broken planks, but beaten back 
with the waves, until he grew exhausted ; his hands 
bruised, his body and limbs numb, and his face lashed 
with the sea as wath the lashing of a whip, his eyes blind 
and sore with the salt water. He seemed on the point of 
fainting away, when suddenly his dream dissolved. The 
sea and the wreck faded from his mind, and he found him- 
self tying on dry land, in the midst of a dense wood, sur- 
rounded by wild fantastic creatures, whose eyes burnt 
upon him with a strange unholy desire. Before him a 
large fire blazed, sending up lurid flames to heaven, and 
illuminating the weird figures which crowded about him 
in the gloom. He turned to speak to them, but as he did 
so, they too faded from his sight. But the fire burned up 
brighter still. 

Suddenly, as he lay there, he felt himself seized by invis- 
ible hands and dragged towards the fire, and he knew then 
that he had fallen into the hands of savages such as he had 
read of in books. With a tremendous effort he leapt to 
his feet ; being utterly unable to stand, he fell again into the 
hands of the men, and with a low suppressed cry, he awoke ! 

In a half dazed, half stupified way, he looked around. 
He was still tying in his bed. The room was in utter 
darkness. All the lights had been removed, the girl and 
her father had disappeared. But although it was summer 
weather, a bright turf fire burned on the floor, and the at- 
mosphere of the room was full of heavy smoke and flame. 

Bisson’s body was bathed in sweat, and his heart was 
beating hard against his side. He was half fainting with 
the heat, sick with pain, dizzy, and only half conscious. 
Yet he partly realized now into what land he had been 
drifted ; he was amongst savage strangers, alone, sick, and 
in their power ; perhaps in imminent peril of his life. 


DOCl'OR" TUAM. 


3 ^ 


As he lay there he recalled, and in his fear partly ex- 
aggerated, the cruel passionate looks which the women 
had flashed upon him, and the dark desperate glances of 
the men. His dream too was ominous. As he thought 
of this and remembered where he was, he felt the cold 
sweat stand in beads upon his forehead. 

He raised his head and looked around again. 

A small space about the floor was illumined by the 
flickering firelight, the rest was black-dark. 

With a shiver he was about to sink back when his at- 
tention was suddenly arrested. 

A sound was heard, so soft and low it would hardly 
have awakened a sleeping dog. 

The Captain listened again. The sound was repeated ; 
this time it was succeeded by a muffled footstep on the 
floor. What could it be ? Already deranged by sickness, 
his brain began to conjure up strange horrors. Had they 
come to murder him 1 was this leaving him in the dark, 
rolled up like a mummy, a trick in order that he might be 
the more easily disposed of ? Bisson was hardly a coward, 
yet he felt a strange thrill pass through him at the thought. 
Had he possessed the full use of his limbs he would have 
leapt out of bed at once, and faced the intruder, whoever 
he might be ; but that being impossible, all he could do 
was to lie quite still and watch. 

He listened intently. The sound was repeated, and 
next a soft breathing was heard as of some one close by. 

Bisson quivered ; if he could only get a light, he 
thought : the darkness was insupportable to him. He 
dared not stir — he dared not speak. That soft shuffling 
sound which must have awakened him from sleep, came 
again, it was so indistinct that the Captain could not de- 
termine the exact cause, but his worst fears grew, until he 
succeeded in convincing himself that people were gather- 
ing in the room. 

He lay still and fixed his eyes upon the gloom. 

No sooner had he done so than he saw a figure emerge 
from the darkest corner. Very slowly and very cautiously 
it crept along on all fours, while the Captain’s eyes fol- 
lowed it in a sort of fascination. The face, that of a man, 
was turned towards the bed. 


32 . 


THE DARK COLLEEN. 


The shadows clouded it ; the red glow from the firelight 
played upon it, so contorting the features, that Bisson could 
not distinguish them clearly ; he only saw lineaments 
hideously drawn and blurred, and a pair of eyes, like 
burning coals, fixed upon his face. 

While, with flesh creeping, Bisson lay quite still, the 
figure crept stealthily on towards the fire. There it paused, 
crouching on the hearthstone ; a moment more, and two 
shadowy hands were extended above the now dying turf 
sods. Almost immediately the sods were re-kindled, and 
as they crackled and blazed, bright flames darted out into 
the room, and a thick cloud of grey vapour ascended to 
the rafters. 

A dark hand was stretched forth again, and something 
bright was extracted from the fire. As in his half feverish 
condition he watched these proceedings Bisson almost 
swooned. Lighthearted as he was by nature, he now lay 
paralyzed with fear, unable to move ; almost unable to see. 

The figure half rose, stealthily as before, and moved 
towards the window. There it paused, its body contorted, 
its arms thrown up in the air. 

Presently it turned again, and this time stealthily 
approached the bed. 

Quietly, cautiously it crept along, while on the bed lay 
Bisson, dazed, gasping, with his feverish eyes fixed upon 
it. The face was turned towards his ; still he could not dis- 
tinguish the features. His breath came quicker : he could 
almost hear tl^e beating of his heart. The footsteps drew 
nearer and nearer, then they ceased. A dark figure cut off 
from the bed the red gleam of the firelight, and then that 
hideously contorted face loomed right above the Captain’s 
form. 

For a second Bisson lay silent, with his frame in a 
quiver, his breath coming quickly, his feverish brain dis- 
tracted, rambling, creating horror upon horror. Suddenly 
he fell c hand laid upon his shoulder. He trembled through 
and through ; then with a sudden impulse he threw out his 
arms and seized the intruder in his powerful grip, 

Bisson’s arms were like iron bands ; no sooner did they 
close around the stranger’s form, than he, like the Captain, 
uttered a heart-rending scream ! 


DOCTOR AND PATIENT. 


33 


Then suddenly the full horror of the situation flashed 
upon the Captain’s brain. What had he done Made 
desperate with terror, he had never paused to think of the 
result of this hand to hand attack. In another moment 
perhaps he would have loosened his hold, but suddenly the 
prisoner dealt such lusty blows upon his person, and hailed 
such imprecations on his head, that Bisson, grown furious 
as any tiger, hit out and struggled in self-defence, retaining 
a firm hold of his victim, until he was dragged completely 
from the bed. The two men, locked in each others’ arms, 
cursing, fighting, and spluttering, had rolled on the floor, 
when suddenly the inner door opened and a flash of light 
streamed into the room. 


CHAPTER VI. 


DOCTOR AND PATIENT. 


HE light fell full upon the figures of the two men. The 



Captain tightened his hold ; his enemy struggled more 
fiercely. The bearer of the light advanced into the room 
and stood in the middle of the floor. 

“ What is the matter ? ” 

The words were spoken in Irish, but the voice sounded 
familiarly in Bisson’s ears. He raised his head, and his 
eyes encountered those of Morna Dunroon. She stood, 
half-dressed, holding a lamp in her hand ; her long hair 
falling in a shower about her shoulders, her eyes still heavy 
with sleep, and on her face a look of startled wonder. Be- 
hind her came her father, his heavy eyes fixed upon the 
figures on the floor. 

Immediately on their appearance, the Captain loosened 
his hold and sprang to his feet, but the pain in his leg was 
so great that he sank at once on the side of the bed. Turn- 
ing to Dunroon he pointed to his antagonist and cried, 

“ Seize that man ; let him not escape. Mon Dicu ! he 
would have murdered me when I was helpless here, but 
I stayed his hand. Secure him now, ere he departs ! ” 

With the slow measured movements peculiar to him. 


3 


34 


THE DARH COLLEEN. 


Dunroon strode across the floor tQ the crouching flgure, 
lifted it by the collar, stood it upon its feet, and held the 
light to illuminate its face. No sooner had he done so than 
his hold relaxed, his dark face almost lighted up into a 
smile. 

“ He harm ye, inagh ? sure ’tis only Doctor Tuam.” 

It was indeed that mystic leech ! All eyes now turned 
upon him, and he seemed fully equal to the scrutiny. He 
crouched down panting, his arms resting upon his knees, 
and his keen eyes flxed upon the confused countenance of 
Captain Bisson. 

“Tuam!” said Morna, astonished, “what was it that 
brought you here to-night ? ” 

“ Not for what I got, be sure I ” screamed Tuam tartly, 
“ didn’t I keep out o’ my bed for the sake o’ it ? — Aye I — 
Wouldn’t it have cured him as well as any other man in- 
tirely ? Yes, sure ! — And wasn’t it going well it was when 
he seized me and bate me like any baste o’ the field-? Ugh 1 
And wont he get tired enough o’ that leg o’ his before he’s 
done ? — Yes, yes ! ” 

“Was it a charm you were w’orking?” asked Morna in 
a low voice. 

“Yes sure,” returned the Doctor, “what else would I 
be doing ? Didn’t ye ask me to do my besht for him ? — 
Yes! — and didn’t I say that I would do that same ? Aye ! 
But was it this way I thought to be served ? — Niel ! — And 
will it be soon again that Td wish to come and see the likes 
o’ himl — NieL Niel 

And having thus vented his outraged feelings, Tuam, 
with another reproachful look at the Captain, made a dive 
for the door of the hut. 

Hitherto Bisson had been too much amazed to speak, 
but now he saw the Doctor moving away he made an 
attempt to rise. 

“ Tenez^ Monsieur le docteur^^' he cried, “ one word, I — ” 
He was too late. Brimming over with indignation at the 
rude frustration of his plans. Doctor Tuam had crossed the 
threshold and disappeared into the night. 

Assuming all his French grace, Bisson turned to Morna. 

‘‘ Pardon"' he said, “ I fear I have disturbed you much, 
but it shall not be so again. If you will permit me, I will 


DOCTOR AND PAT/ENT 


35 

return to my bed and get some sleep before the night is 
out ! ” 

Morna smiled and nodded ; she had evidently no inten- 
tion of leaving the room, however, until she again saw the 
Captain comfortably disposed of. Seeing he could not 
walk unsupported, she looked at her father, who thereupon 
strode forward and offered to assist Bisson to bed. But the 
Captain looked confused, hesitated, and glanced again at 
Morna. 

“ Would not your daughter wish to return to her rest ? ” 
he said, “ you see I have disturbed her and — ” 

“Never think of her,” said Dimroon, gruffly. “She’ll 
plase herself no doubt, but I have no wish to have the 
house disturbed till break of day ! ” 

“ mon ami said the Captain blandly, and see- 

ing that there was no help for it, he took the arm that was 
proffered him, and hobbled to the bed, while Morna stood 
by holding the light and innocently fixing her eyes upon 
his face. 

The room was not left in darkness again. When Mor- 
na and her father retired, the light, a small oil lamp, was 
fixed upon the bedpost at the Captain’s feet. The flame 
dickered on his face and in his eyes, but it did not drive 
away sleep as it might have done. He was exhausted with 
the struggle, worn out with pain, and he soon fell into a 
heavy slumber. 

VVhen he awakened again it was broad day. The full 
sunlight of a spring morning was streaming through a little 
square window right across the floor. There was no person 
in the room, but although it was early, Bisson heard the 
murmur of voices in an adjoining chamber. He began to 
wish that some person, no matter who, would come to him, 
for although he felt refreshed with his sleep, his brain was 
still somewhat feverish, his body bruised and sore with his 
late adventure, and the seaweed poultice on his leg stiff 
and hard. He would have been glad to see anyone then, 
even the hostile Doctor ; he felt such an intolerable sense 
of loneliness. Another moment and he would have called 
aloud, but as he lay meditating upon the expedience of such 
a proceeding, he heard the room door slowly open, and 
turning his head saw a pair of dark eyes fixed intently upon 
his face. 


3 ^ 


THE DARK COLLEEN. 


The girl whom he had disturbed in the night, and who 
had first appeared before him on the shore of Eagle Island. 
The Captain recognized her at once ; — whenever did his 
critical eyes pass carelessly over the face of a pretty girl ? 
Although he had only seen Morna Dunroon during mo- 
ments of ignominy or torture, Bisson had marked hers as 
by far the fairest face to be seen on the Island, and he had 
admired her accordingly. So the expression of pain on 
his countenance was succeeded by one of pleasure, as Mor- 
na, opening the door still wider, advanced, half hesitating, 
into the room. 

Kardieu, this girl was not like a civilizee or a town- 
bred beauty, for her face shone fresh and radiant in the 
morning brightness. Almost as if she was determined to 
put her charms to the fullest test, she came forward and 
stood direct in the rays of the sunlight. 

She was attired in the picturesque costume of the island- 
ers, though her dress was, perhaps, of a finer material 
than those usually worn, she being Dunroon’s daughter, 
and an only child. Her jet black hair was drawn together 
now and curiously braided about her head, her black eyes 
were full of light, and her soft brown cheeks were suffused 
with a warm tinge, which, had it been a little deeper, 
might have been a blush. She looked very charming as 
she stood there in the sunlight ; and for a moment the 
Captain lay back to admire her. Her rich, dark, Spanish 
beauty, softened by an infusion of Celtic blood, formed a 
good combination — one which, at that moment, Bisson 
deemed irresistible. 

She was only a peasant girl, it is true ; and she had 
received little or no education, for she had spent all her 
short life within the lonely limits of Eagle Island, where 
instruction was unprocurable, almost unknown. However, 
she could both read and write the English and the Irish 
speech : a meagre accomplishment in these days of ad- 
vancement ; but having got these from man, she had gone 
to Nature for the rest. 

As the Captain looked upon her, he thought he had 
never beheld one so beautiful. She advanced towards 
him, and fixing upon him those large dark eyes of hers, 
addressed him in a soft, musical voice. Did he feel 


DOCTOR AND PA TIENT. 


37 

better ? was his leg paining him still ? and would he wish 
her to send for Doctor Tuam ? 

At the mention of that name, Bisson’s face again be- 
came full of anxiety, for, despite the plausible explanation 
he had received, he still half believed that the Doctor had 
secret designs upon his person. Besides, had not Tuam 
that very night made him look ridiculous in Morna’s eyes ? 
Yes, indeed ; so he said emphatically, 

“ Not at all ; why is it that I should wish to see the 
man ? Did he not torture me horribly } and then, not 
content with that, he wished to injure me. I avow it still — ■ 
else why did he return in the night-time ? ” 

Morna laughed. 

“ That is always his way,” she said softly. “ He came 
to do you good, and not harm — why should he harm you ? 
’tis by working spells he makes his cures — he has no other 
way ! ” 

“ You think they work cures ? ” 

“ I have seen them.” 

“ Proof positif,” murmured the Captain cynically, as 
his blue eyes rested languidly upon her face ; “ hxiX pardon^ 
I believe not in such superstitions, and I refuse to be the 
victim of this man ; send him not to me again, but get 
some other.” 

“ We have no other ! ” 

“ del ! ” murmured the Captain, “ then it is only by favor 
of the Virgin herself that the islanders are not exterminated. 
As for myself, if he would but return, as there is no other, 
and release me from my bonds, I would wish for him no 
more — but a night has passed since he bound me up, and 
the ‘ zayvede,’ as he termed it, is harsh, dry, and unpleas- 
ant to the skin.” 

The smile died from Morna’s eyes, and her face became 
full of concern. 

“ Surely,” she said, “ he did not mean it to stay on so 
long; but you drove him away, and ’tis not likely he’ll re- 
turn ” and turning from the Captain, she left the room as 
quietly as she had entered it. 

Bisson looked after her, amazed at her unceremonious 
exit, but before he had time to speculate upon it, Morna 
returned, d'his time she carried in her hands a large basin, 


THE DARK COLLEEN. 


3S 

and a coarse towel was thrown over her arm. She set the 
basin on the floor, took a low stool' and sat down beside 
the bed, and before Bisson could well understand what she 
was about to do, she had uncovered his leg. and was softly 
at work removing the bandages. When this was done, and 
the dry sea-weed brushed away, she placed the basin in her 
lap, took up the water in her hollowed hands, and let it 
flow softly upon the limb. How soothing it was, especially 
to a sensitive-natured man like Captain ]3isson ! And, in- 
deed, we are bound to confess, a less susceptible creature 
would hardly have undergone the treatment without pleas- 
ure. Cordials for mind and body ! The cold water trick- 
ling down upon his leg brought with it a sense of infinite 
physical relief, and the presence of the girl, her beauty, 
her loving grace, set every nerve in Bisson’s frame softly 
and pleasantly thrilling. 

True, he was no novice in such sensations ; but this 
seemed different to his former experiences,' and his heart 
began to palpitate wdth delight. Never before had he 
been placed in quite such a position ; to be waited on and 
nursed by so pretty a creature, was almost too much for 
the tender-hearted sailor. 

Meantime, Morna, utterly unconscious of the effect she 
was producing, continued to bathe the injured limb. Since 
she had commenced her work, she had not looked up once ; 
for she had no false modesty ; only pity had prompted her 
conduct — pity for the misfortunes of a fellow-creature. 
Had Bisson been as hard-favored as many of the inhab- 
itants of Eagle Island, he would, under the circumstances, 
have elicited the girl’s sympathy almost as strongly as he 
had done now. So Morna sat without a blush upon her 
cheek, continuing to lift the water in her hollowed hands, 
and to pour it upon the limb ; and she was glad when she 
found that it gave the sufferer relief. 

Had she continued her operations throughout the day 
Bisson would never have told her to desist. Such a novel 
situation had its charms for him, and he seemed not over 
anxious to bring it to a close. I'he tete-d-tete was soon 
broken up, however, by the advent of a third person on the 
scene. 

As Morna was quietly continuing her work, she was sud 


DOCTOR AND PA TIENT. 


39 


denly startled by a low gurgling sound, proceeding from 
the neighborhood of the door, and, turning quickly, she be- 
held none other than Doctor Tuam himself — crouched on 
his hams in the doorway, his tawny head uncovered, his 
keen eyes fixed upon the girl, his mouth half open, and his 
throat emitting that strange music which first startled her, 
and which was caused by a vain attempt to express the ad- 
miration he felt at the course which she was pursuing. 

When Morna perceived him, she quietly set the basin on 
the floor, began to dry the leg with her towel, and motion- 
ed to him to advance. Bisson had his eyes closed and 
saw nothing of what was passing. The Doctor remained 
for a time crouching upon the floor; suddenly he rose, 
sprang forward, and seized the leg from the girl’s hands. 

Then Bisson opened his eyes. 

When he saw that he had again fallen into the hands of 
his torturer, he struggled and writhed, but it was of no 
avail : the Doctor had him and he kept him, and not until 
he had made a careful survey of the limb did he loosen his 
hold. Then he retired from the contest, and crouching 
down again beside the bed, looked from one to another in 
silence. Morna was evidently-quite accustomed to his ec- 
centricities, and when she gazed into his face she saw at 
once that something was wrong. So she went up to him, 
put her hand on his shoulder and asked quietly, 

“What is the matter, Tuam ? ” 

“The matter, is it?” returned the Doctor. “ ’Tis as I 
told ye, nothing more nor less ; ’tis the shmall bone itself 
that is shnapt intirely, ’tis in bed he must shtay for a while, 
believe me^ and as for yerself, machrec^ why the besht thing 
that ye can do, since he broke the charm, is to lave it with 
water, as ye did a while ago. The say weed itself is good 
for some Christians, but ’tis little use for the likes of Iiun T' 

As the Doctor spoke in Irish, Bisson could not under- 
stand a word of what he said ; but he heard the voice, and 
he saw the dark look which flitted across IMorna’s face as 
she listened to the ominous words. Not being a man to 
be kept in suspense, especially when his own fair person 
was concerned, he raised himself in the bed, leaned his 
cheek upon his hand, and looked more earnestly at the 


40 


THE DARK COLLEEN. 


“ What is it ? ” he asked in ,his low soft voice. “ Had 
mon ami le docteur been accommodating enough to use the 
English tongue, I might perhaps have comprehended him, 
but with the Irish speech I have no acquaintance. The 
words concern me doubtless, and I am interested. Will 
you have the goodness to act as interpreter for our 
friend ” 

For a moment Morna remained silent ; her face did not 
break into smiles this time, and as she turned to Bisson her 
eyes were full of pity. Crouched upon the floor, the Doc- 
tor watched her keenly, open-eyed, open-mouthed, but the 
girl’s cheek did not blush. She walked up close to the bed, 
leaned forward and spoke in English. 

“Tuam says, your leg is badly hurt, and that you must 
continue to stay with us, as some time will pass before you 
can leave Eagle Island.” And as she spoke the last words 
a wave of light swept over and illumined her face. 

Bisson gazed at her spell-bound. His blue eyes for a 
moment lost their languid look, and became rivetted upon 
hers, while Morna returned the gaze, innocently- and openly, 
her face again full of pity, and her lip quivering slightly. 
A moment more, and Bisson sank back with a sigh. 

The prospect of a few months’ residence on Eagle Island 
did not, at first, appear a very pleasant or desirable one to 
him, accustomed as he had been to types of civilization so 
infinitely higher than were those with whom he was now to 
be surrounded. But when such a girl as Morna Dunroon 
stept forward to brighten its foreground, the picture as- 
sumed a somewhat different aspect, and he saw at once a 
means of instilling light and life into what would otherwise 
become a dreary monotonous existence. Bisson was quick- 
wkted, and as his blue eyes were fixed upon the girl’s face, 
these thoughts and others more glowing flitted through his 
brain. And it seemed as if Morna half divined them, for 
her cheeks colored as she turned away. 

Let us at once confess that her mind had hardly attain- 
ed such a power of introspection as had that of Captain 
Bisson. She had spent all her days on the shores of the 
lonely island, with none to gaze upon fairer that those hard- 
favored fishermen, coarse-natured, stern-hearted, endow- 
ed with none of the refinement and grace attendant upon 


QUIE T DA VS. 


41 


moie advanced civilization and communication with higher 
races of mankind. Hitherto Morna had’ admired these 
men, because she had seen none better to admire, but now 
the case was altered, and, almost despite herself, a vague 
feeling of delight stole into her breast, when she knew that 
the stranger must remain. 


CHAPTER VH. 


QUIET DAYS. 


Q uiet days quickly followed, days that were full of 
pleasantness to the Frenchman. 

Although a full fortnight had passed since that day 
when he was washed ashore and carried insensible into 
Dunroon’s hut, the en/itii which he had so surely antici- 
pated had not come to him, and the injuries which he had 
received proved less serious than Tuam O’Deegan had 
avowed. The bone of his leg had not been broken, but 
the flesh was much bruised, and the muscles severely 
strained. When he ascertained that he was sound, Bisson 
was overjoyed; for the thought of limping about upon a 
stick was not a pleasant one to contemplate, especially for 
a man like the Captain, who thought of his appearance at 
all times, but more especially when he was thrown much 
into female society of any caste, however humble. He 
knew that he possessed the charms which most women 
admire — physical strength, a fine appearance, a well-toned 
voice, an easy grace of manner ; and he could not bear 
the thought of any one of these charms being taken from 
him. How many women had he seen blush, tremble and 
turn away, to avoid the light of his eyes ; but would they 
have done so had he been under the painful necessity of 
hobbling up to them on a crutch, or a pair of crutches ? 
Sacre I the thought was terrible. So Bisson was glad on 
the whole, and fervently thanked his favorite saints, when 
he discovered that personal disfigurement would not be 
come an absolute necessity. 

Up to this time he had had no opportunity of learning 


42 


THE DARK COLLEEN. 


much concerning the Eagle Islanders, for they had one 
and all, as if by common consent, avoided the house. 
Even Doctor Tuam had never appeared again. So Bisson 
was left solely to the care of Morna Dunroon. 

And Morna did her nursing well, for she, like a very 
woman, was taken by the look of the sailor’s face. She 
liked the ring of his foreign voice, the light in his bright 
blue eyes, and she thought it pleasant to listen to his 
words, — words which were sometimes trivial enough in 
themselves, but which gained so much by being spoken 
in that soft, winning, broken accent of his. There was a 
gentle fascination about the man which drew her to him. 

The captain had abundant opportunities of exercising 
his power upon her, for Morna was very often his sole com- 
panion and attendant. Dunroon was often away, either at 
the fishing, or tilliiig his detached bits of land, but Morna 
stayed at home as if to keep Bisson company. She 
smoothed the pillows for his head; sometimes she would 
let her fingers rest for a moment on his golden hair. 
Every day she sat by his bedside, as she had done at first, 
and bathed his wounded limb, while he lay back, dreamily 
watching her, and doing his best to draw forth from her 
lips whatever information he required. 

At first Morna was quiet and very grave, and answered 
his questions sparingly ; but as she grew more at her ease, 
she became more communicative, and told him all about 
herself and her father and the affairs of the Island. At 
length she spoke to him of his own misfortune, reminding 
him how she herself had been the first to find him lying 
upon the sands. As she spoke, a peculiar expression 
flitted across the captain’s face and he turned his eyes full 
upon her. 

“ Mon Dieu ! but you were seeking the wrecker’s spoil,” 
he said, his soft voice growing quite hard. “ Do you ofte 
find such driftwood ? ” 

Morna steadfastly returned his gaze. 

“ I do not understand,” she said. “ I was seeking 
nothing at all when I found you. I had gone to meet my 
father, who was at the fishing.” 

Bisson made a wry face. 

he said. ‘‘M comprehend you well. You do 


QUIET DAYS. 


43 


things well, you islanders ; I have heard of you and I un- 
derstand. ’Tis the strong men who slaughter the sailors, 
the girls who receive the spoil, is it not so 1 ” 

At this Morna looked puzzled. 

“ I cannot understand you,” she said, “ if you think we 
harm people you are wrong. If this is so, why did we not 
hurt you.” 

The Captain shrugged his shoulders. 

‘‘ Because the Saints willed it otherwise,” he said. 
“ You or the Saints, which was it ? Ma foi ! but those 
men would have thought little of casting me away had you 
not been there — 7i esi-ce pas .? ” 

Morna’s face became quite red, and her eyes sought the 
ground. She knew that Bisson was partly right in his con- 
jectures, but as she had no wish to expose to his gaze the 
true character of her superstitious countrymen, she held her 
peace. Bisson attributed the blush to quite another cause, 
and a quiet smile flitted across his features as he fixed his 
eyes intently upon her face. 

Had it been his fortune to be cast amongst many maid- 
ens, it is possible that Bisson, at this period, would not 
have confined his attention to one. As it was, he had no 
choice. Accustomed as he had always been to make the 
most of his charms while in female society, it came quite 
naturally to him in this case, when he was alone with Morna 
Dunroon. It cost him no effort to sink his voice when he 
spoke to her, to look at her admiringly with those bright 
eyes of his, and to utter in broken English pretty little 
complimentary phrases with such innate French grace. 
At first, it must be confessed, he did so quite from habit, 
with no thought whatever of the probable consequences to 
which such speeches might lead, when uttered in the ear of 
a simple minded peasant girl like Morna Dunroon. 

Soon, however, his graceful attentions proceeded fron 
quite another cause. As he saw and knew more of the girl, 
he began to feel in his breast that strange sentimental flutter- 
ing which he had so often felt before, but which, he had 
thought, would never by any possibility be aroused during 
his compulsory residence on Eagle Island. He had ad- 
mired her beauty from the first ; admired it, much as a 
man might admire the beauty of his' favorite hound. Very 
soon his feeling towards her took quite another form. 


44 


THE DARK COLLEEN. 


He began to watch the effect of his speeches upon her, 
to long to call up on her cheek a blush, a smile ; most 
fatal of all, he at length turned his thoughts to his own per 
sonal appearance. Reflecting now, for the first time, that 
while lying on a sick bed one does not generally appear to 
advantage, he determined at length to make the attempt to 
rise. The inflammation in his leg having subsided, there 
seemed no reason now why he should continue to be kejDt 
a prisoner. So one day Morna, in obedience to his request, 
entered the room with an old suit of her father’s clothes 
hanging over her arm, and going up to the bedside, told him 
very quietly that she had come to assist him in his toilet. 

Bisson raised his head and looked in her face. 

Mon Dieu ! ” he said, “ it will be pleasant again to 
see the sun, though for that matter, it has been pleasant 
here. You will show to me your land, Morna, when I shall 
be out there on the hills 

“Yes, indeed, but now I will assist you to rise. See I 
have brought you some of my father’s clothes ! ” 

“ Merci I ” murmured the Captain. “ You are good. If 
you will withdraw now I will try them on.” 

“ Go away ? ” said Morna, opening her eyes and raising 
her brows. “Indeed then I shall not do that, for your leg 
must be weak, and you require help.’ 

Bisson stared. At first he could hardly believe his ears. 
Morna actually meant to stay and valet him, and said so 
with that quiet frankness which was so habitual to her. 
From what he had already seen, he knew that she was quite 
capable of doing what she said. Turning to her, he was 
about to reply, when the room door suddenly opened and 
Morna burst into a laugh. 

“ You come in time, father,” she said to the newcomer, 
as she ran to his side, took hold of his sleeve and pulled 
him forward. “ Captain Bisson is about to rise, he will 
not let me assist him. He is ungrateful, is he not, since I 
have stayed with him so long; but you shall do so now that 
you are here.” 

Bisson looked from one to another in confusion. Dun- 
roon strode forward and offered his help, and the Captain, 
seeing that Morna had no idea whatever of leaving the 
room reluctantly consented to don, without further cere- 


THE CEE AG HA LUING. 


45 


mony, the fisherman’s clothes. When the dressing was 
accomplished, and the Captain again stood upon the floor, 
he did not look at Morna, and she, with the same frank 
expression on her face, approached the spot where he stood, 
and gently drew him down into a chair. 

This was Captain Bisson’s first rising from bed. He 
felt very weak, but his injuries were almost cured, so he 
was not kept to the house long. He quickly got out into 
the sunshine, and day by day he recovered his strength, 
until, with the exception of having to lean on a staff and 
spare his injured limb, he became quite himself again. 


CHAPTER VHI. 


THE CREAG NA LUING. 



'AITH then ’tis little use to think of her any more. 


A She’s only gone where many a good ship went before 
and ’tis little good to mourn her, for devil the ship ever 
came to light again that went on the Creag na Luing.” 

And Dunroon smoked his pipe as calmly as before, 
while Morna, putting up both her hands to shield the sun 
from her eyes, looked in her father’s face. 

For a moment Bisson’s features were contracted; then 
he spread his white hands out before him. 

“ Mon ami ! but this is bad news ; the ‘ Hortense ’ ha 
taken with her the fortunes of Emile Bisson, and one can- 
not relinquish such without a sigh. On what spot was it 
where calamity befel us ? ” 

Dunroon rose to his feet, turned towards the sea, and 
pointed with his big brown hand. 

“ ’Tis out yonder, a full sea mile from the shore. The 
rocks stritch in a long reef, and there is a narrow shannel 
runs up between them. At high tide they lie three feet 
below water, and at low tide they’re three feet above. 
Twas at high tide that you struck, and your ship sunk over 
in the shannel a hundred fathoms deep ! ” 

Bisson shuddered, then he smiled. 

“And by the mercy of the Saints, 1 was washed ashore ? ” 


46 


THE DARK COLLEEN. 


Morna crossed her breast, Dunroon nodded. 

“ There is time yet for more driftweed,” he said, “ first 
we get the bodies, then the planks for fuel, though the 
ships that go down yonder never see the light again.” 

For a few moments Bisson was silent ; then he said to 
Dunroon, 

“ You think I must give up my ship and all its cargo 
to the sea ? ” 

The “ Hortense ” was insured to her full value, but the 
Captain did not think it necessary to mention the fact. 

Dunroon nodded his head. 

“ Sure there is nothing else that you can do ! ” 

“ Ma foi ! I will row to the place where she was lost 
and inspect it ; that at least is possible.” 

Morna sprang to her feet. 

“Yes, indeed,” she said, “ I have the curragh there on 
the shore, and we will go to-day if you wish ! ” 

“ You will take me, ma 7nie ? ” 

“Yes ! ” and a few minutes afterward's Morna was walk- 
ing by Bisson’s side down towards the sea. 

A full week had passed since Bisson had first come out 
into the sunshine, and already nearly all traces of his late 
disaster had disappeared from his person. He walked 
with a slight limp, and carried a stick in his hand, but this 
blemish in no way detracted from his natural grace. Walk- 
ing on a hillside, clad in the picturesque fisherman’s garb, 
the Captain certainly appeared to more advantage than 
while lying on a bed in Dunroon’s hut. His golden hair 
clustered about his head in a mass of shining curls, and 
he wore an old hat of Dunroon’s — a broad black hat of felt, 
which was drawn down so as to shade his eyes from the 
strong sunlight. Broad chested, tall, erect, with powerful 
legs and arms, he was a splendid creature. His only fault, 
if fault it could be called, was a certain inimitable confi- 
dence in the power of his own attractions. 

In his own country the Captain was something of a 
dandy, scrupulous in dress and fond of personal ornament. 
Although his face was tanned brown with constant expos- 
ure to the sun and the sea breeze, his hands, owing to a 
habit he had of wearing gloves at sea, were of remarkable 
whiteness, and these hands he displayed quite dazzlingly 


THE CEE AG HA LUING 


47 

when he iingered, as was his constant habit, his thick flaxen 
moustache. 

Altogether he formed a strong contrast to the figure by 
his side. 

Morna was slightly made and very graceful. Her glossy 
jet-black hair contrasted strangely with the Captain’s 
golden locks, and her large black eyes and brown skin 
were as remarkable in their way for beauty as were the at- 
tractions of the vivacious Frenchman. 

As she walked along by his side, stepping barefoot over 
the purple heather, or pausing now and again to peep at 
her companion, to draw her breath, and to look with shaded 
eyes across the sea, her face and finger were so full of light 
and life, that Bisson’s blue eyes lighted up into positive 
ecstasy as they gazed. 

It was a bright summer day. 

The sky above was a deep blue vault, from which the 
sun’s rays fell in a golden shower. Far away, wrapt in a 
mist of heat, the crags and hill-tops towered, and above, 
the heather and long spear grass waved. Here and there 
on the crags some lazy fisher lay, sunk deep in a bed of 
heather, his broad hat pulled over his face, and his limbs 
stretched out in the sunshine, as he slept heavily, weary 
with fishing toil. 

Others at the doors of their huts, sat mending their 
nets, and around them were girls and children, barefooted, 
bareheaded, standing in the full blaze of the sunlight, 
laughing and chattering, and calling to each other. There 
were no trees nor shrubs to be seen, but the corn grew 
high, interspersed with patches of thick green ferns, and 
tracts of mountain thyme and heather skirted the cliffs. 

The sound of the sea filled the air. On the grass, and 
on the glittering crags, the salt spray sparkled in the sun- 
shine. High in the air with wings outspread was poised a 
peregrine, while over the crags the ravens circled, and a 
kestrel hovered. Presently, Morna paused, turned to her 
companion, and pointed with her hand. 

“ Do you see a land like this,” she asked, “ over yonder 
on the mainland ? ” 

Bisson shrugged his shoulders. 

“ Ah^ Dieu I not at all. They have streets there, 
screaming infants, thick smoke, and — trade ! ” 


48 


THE DARK COLLEEN. 


Morna’s face fell. 

“ I always thought it was better. Barron has told me 
so.” 

Prohahlement^ ma mie ! \i\xt likely Monsieur Barron, 
whoever he may be, has travelled inland, and through 
spaces of country where towns are unknown.” 

“ He has seen many wonders,” continued Morna 
quietly, watching Bisson’s face, “ for he has walked over 
land, and had the trees — not like our ferns and bracken, 
but real tall trees — stretching above his head, near as tall 
as those crags before us. And then he has seen the iron 
way, too, and more than that, he has travelled on it once, 
when he left old Cullen with the ass. It must be grand, 
the country that he has seen.” 

“ Ma foi, little one ! we have each our different thoughts. 
Did you ever wish to go there .? ” 

“ Sometimes, indeed I have wished it, when Barron 
has told me of the wonders of many strange things which 
we never have here ; and when I have -been standing on 
the cliffs yonder, and looking out over the sea, I have 
often wished to sail away for a while, just to see for once 
the land which I know lies there beyond the line of the 
sky.” 

“ But not to stay > ” 

“ No, indeed, I could never do that, for I belong to 
Eagle Island ; and that new land would be strange to me, 
you know, and I might not understand their tongue. Be- 
sides I have my father here, and Truagh. I could not go 
for always.” 

“Truagh, and who maybe this Truagh?” asked the 
Captain quickly, as his blue eyes sharpened, the edges of 
his mouth drew down, and his white hand stroked his 
mustache. 

Morna glanced quietly into his face, and for a moment 
a sad expression flitted across her features ; then she said : 

“ He is a lad who was not born straight and well as 
other children are. They say he is a Fairy,” here she 
paused to cross herself, “ but it is every word untrue.” 

Her cheek grew pale, and her lip quivered as she 
spoke. Bisson paused for a moment and gazed upon her; 
then he asked, in his soft musical voice, 


THE CREAG NA LUTNG. 


49 


And you care for him very much, mo7i amie ? ” 

The girl raised her eyes and returned his look with a 
loving smile. 

“ Yes, indeed, as all good people should care for him, 
for sure he is wise and kind ; 1 have known him since lie 
was a child. ’Twas he that taught me the English speech 
as the priest taught him^ and he tried hard indeed to make 
me wise like himself ! ” 

Bisson did not reply, for by this time they had reached 
the sea shore. A broad expanse of shingle stretched along 
at the base of the cliffs, and part of the yellow ribbed sand 
was visible, stiil dark and damp where the sea had washed 
in soft wavelets. On these sands lay a citi'ragh^ around 
the sides of which the water lapped ; a strong thick rope 
was fastened to the prow, and knotted firmly around a 
stone on the shore. 

Strolling leisurely to the spot, Bisson unloosed the rope 
and cast it into the boat, while Morna sprang lightly in, 
lifted one of the oars and pushed off. Bisson followed 
her example, and the curragh was soon floating out upon 
the sea. Still retaining his oar, Bisson stretched out his 
hand for the other, but Morna shook her head. 

“ No, indeed, ’tis I must row, for you are not strong, 
and besides, you could hardly manage a curragh, maybe.” 

Bisson was compelled to acknowledge the truth of the 
latter part of her speech, for although be stood in the 
middle of the curragh, with his feet planted firmly, the 
craft oscillated about, and seemed in great danger of being 
overturned ; so without more ado he relinquished his oar 
to Morna and took his seat in. the stern. 

As he sank down, half reclining, half sitting, his ap- 
pearance seemed to give a direct contradiction to the fact 
that he was a convalescent. His strong limbs were 
stretched out in the boat, his head was thrown up ; with 
one sweep of his white hand he cast back his golden hair, 
and displayed a face brown as a berry and bright as sun- 
shine. His throat was bare, the collar of his fisherman’s 
shirt turned back over a blue scarf which was knotted on 
his breast. Even while he wore the coarse dress of the 
natives, his natural dandyism had been brought into play, 
and little touches here and there converted the old cos- 

4 


THE DARK COLLEEN. 


50 

tume into the most pleasing dress to be seen that day on 
Eagle Island. 

Morna was dressed much like the ordinary island girls, 
though her dress as usual seemed of a finer texture than 
that usually worn. Her feet and legs, as we have said, 
were bare, her striped petticoat did not reach to her ankles, 
her hair was drawn back and carefully braided, and over 
her head was cast a scarf which was wound about her 
neck and shoulders. This scarf was her sole protection 
from the sun. Round her neck hung a small rosary of 
black beads. 

She plied the oars easily and gracefully, glancing from 
time to time at Bisson, but he, indifferent for the nonce to 
his fascinating companion, seemed lost in a reverie, as his 
head hung over the boat’s side, and his eyes looked into 
the liquid depths beneath. 

They were passing along the base of the cliffs. The 
water was deep, clear as crystal, and green as malachite. 
The bottom was clearly visible : huge'purple rocks, stones, 
and tangled weeds, with sea flowers and ferns, rising up 
towards the surface, and spreading out their pliant tendrils 
beneath the sea. 

But presently there came a vision brighter than all. 
Far beneath the surface stretched a broad expanse of 
mingled gold and green. Upon this spot the grass grew 
fresh and bright as upon the cliffs above, and crimson sea- 
ferns clustered in knots, and ocean flags of many colors 
were moving and stirring in life, while the water washed 
around them in soft undulations. Although full seven 
feet deep, the bottom was clearly visible, for the water was 
transparent and shining bright as any mirror. Close by 
this “spot of greenery,” the crags rose to a tremendous 
height, almost closing it in ; and at the base of the cliff 
opened out a huge cavern, whither the seals flocked to 
breed and rear their young. 

For a few moments Bisson gazed quietly ; then raising 
his head, he turned to Morna, and pointed down with his 
hand. 

“Tell me, Morna,” he asked, “is it not pretty to see ? 
One would like to wander down there — to live in a glade 
like that — is it not so ? ” 


THE CEE AG NA LUING. 


51 


Morna crossed herself before she replied. 

“ Down there, is it ? Ah, no, that is the Isle na 
Rhuinish ! ” 

“Yes?” 

“ ’Tis there the water spirits make their home, and the 
Midian Mara comes each night, and more than that, his by 
far the most precious spot on the whole of Eagle Island.” 

“In what way, Morna?” asked the Captain, as the 
listless look for a moment disappeared from his face and 
his eyes lighted up into life. 

“ Because,” answered the girl, “ should any harm come 
to the land, should the fishing go wrong, or the crops be- 
come bad, or the cattle turn sick and die, a \o\mg colleen has 
but to dive down yonder, at full tide, and at the full of the 
moon, and pluck and bring to land one of those sea-flowers 
and get it blessed by the priest and placed in holy ground, 
when the luck will turn and the land will prosper.” 

“ This has been tried ? ” asked Bisson, raising his brows 
with a peculiar smile. 

“ No, indeed,” returned Morna, quietly, “ because there 
has been no need ; but if ill-fortune came to the land, it 
would be the only thing to right it. Now, the Midian 
Mara favors the fishing, as she had done since the day I 
was born 1” 

“Morna?” 

“ Yes ? ” 

“ There is no Midian Mara, ma mie. That is all — ” 

“ Indeed then there is,” broke in Morna decidedly, 
“for ’tis through the Midian Mara that I am called Morna.” 

“How so, leetle one ? Hites dond' 

Morna hesitated for a moment, then she said. 

“ On the night when I was born there was a great storm 
upon the sea, and the men were at the fishing. They were 
thinking that the boats would be lost, and all the men, but 
when the wind was loudest, and the waves were highest, 
they saw the Midian Mara rise up from the water, with 
a bright light upon her face and hair. As the men looked 
at her they could not speak, nor move, but they saw her 
stretch out her hands and heard her calling softly, ‘ Morna, 
Morna,’ and as she called the wind grew less and less, and 
the storm passed off.” 


52 


THE DARK COLLEEN. 


“ Mais oui 1 What follow ? ” 

“ So when my father came home and found me there, 
he knew it was a sign and he said, ‘ We will call her ^torna, 
and maybe the Midian Mara will favor the fishing, and 
guard the child from dangers anymore.’ ” * 

“ So you are a water-maiden, Morna ! ” said Bisson 
languidly. 

The girl looked startled — she hurriedly crossed herself 
and said gravely, 

“ No, indeed, I am not that at all, but the Midian Mara 
would be kind to me, I know.” 

“ Certainefjtent., oui., if she exist } Who would fail to be 
kind to you, Morna ? but — ” and here the captain looked 
keenly at her ; “ say, you have seen her with her own 
eyes ? ” 

Morna nodded ; Bisson raised his brows again. 

“ But where ? ” he asked. 

“ When I was but a little child. I was standing one 
day on the crag yonder, watching the sea, and I saw the 
Midian Mara sitting just below me waving me down, and 
when I went her face grew quite bright and beautiful ; she 
took me in her arms, and sung to me softly, until I went 
to sleep. When I awakened I was lying on the sands close 
to the edge of the sea.” 

A cynical smil’e played about Bisson’s lips, but he re- 
mained silent ; then suddenly he asked, 

“ You have ever dwelt alone ; n’esf ce pas., Morna ? ” 

“Yes, with my father.” 

“And what do you in all the long days before I 
come ” 

Morna laughed. 

“ 1 have plenty to do,” she said. “ While my father’s 
at the fishing I have to mind the house, and milk the cows, 

and when I have done my work I have plenty of play I 

wander out on the mountains and the crags. Sometimes I 


* Anymore. This expression is used peculiarly by the Irish peas- 
antry. “ My father is sick anymore,” instead of “ my father is still 
sick ; ” “ he is out of Ireland anymore,” instead of “ he is out of Ireland 
by this time,” are examples of this idiom .— from “ The Qneen of 
ConnaughH - 


THE CEE AG HA LUING. 


53 

come down here and swim in the water, or in this same 
Ciirra^h 1 row upon the sea.” 

“ Alone ? ” 

“ Yes, sure, I do not wish for company.” 

“ But you feel lonely, leetle one, is it not 

Morna shook her head. 

Silence fell upon them now, and nothing but the splash 
of Morna’s oars broke the stillness. She turned the cur- 
ragh from the clilf, and rowed out straight from shore. 
Here and there the water was blackened by flocks of guill- 
emots and cormorants, and other flocks sat preening their 
feathers upon the outlying rocks. Around the boat the 
pufflns swam, and over-head the sea-terns flew with shrill 
cry. When they had left the shore a few miles behind them, 
the splashing of the oars suddenly ceased, and Bisson 
looked up wearily as from a dream. 

Morna was leaning forward, resting upon the oars, and 
looking at her companion. When his eyes met hers she 
smiled sadly, then she turned her head and looked around. 

“ This is the place,” she said, “ sure we are now above 
the Creag na Luing ! ” 

The words were simple and softly spoken, but Bisson 
started as if a bullet had entered his heart ! the listless ex- 
pression faded from his face, and his features contorted 
strangely as he looked around. All was so quiet, peaceful 
and strange, so oddly contrasted with that night when the 
“ Hortense ” struck, split, and Anally sank on that very 
spot ! For a moment, Bisson shivered. Then collecting 
himself, he leaned over the boat and looked down. 

Down beneath he saw the jagged reef which stretch 'd 
for miles — the sharp cruel crags rising upward, and open- 
ing out into huge jaws. Here the rock was broad and flat 
as a table-land, but full of small fissures where grass grew 
and great crabs and lobsters swarmed ; then it was washed 
into fantastic figures and grotesque forms ; needles of 
sharp red stone pointing upward like the teeth of a saw, 
covered with weedy slime and yellow moss. 

With a shudder Bisson looked up and turned to Morna. 

“ How many ship have perished there ? ” he asked, 
pointing downward with his white hand. 

She shook her head. 


54 


THE DARK COLLEEN. 


Sure, one can hardly tell. Many went there before I 
was born and many have gone since.” 

‘‘ And they were never recovered ? ” 

“ No indeed. We have had planks and barrels washed 
ashore, and these have been used for fuel ; then we have 
had dead bodies, and these have sometimes been buried 
on the sea shore. But we never saw the ships.” 

Without a word Bisson turned from her and looked 
down again. About midway in the reef the teeth were rent 
asunder to form a narrow channel. From the sides of the 
crags which formed this channel, splinters of rock jutted 
out like spikes, leaving a good breadth at first, but narrow- 
ing in ominously, so as freely to admit all unsuspecting 
vessels, which entered blindly until they were firmly seized 
and crunched between the spikes. Here the “ Hortense ” 
had entered, liere she had been destroyed, here she had 
“ heeled over ” to her doom. 

Morna rowed directly over this spot, and Bisson looked 
keenly through the water. The depth of the channel was 
so great that he failed to discern anything there ; but as 
he cast his eyes around him he saw, for the first time, that 
many splinters of wood were drifting out upon the sea. 

Blisson’s face was quite white now, and his hand trem- 
bled, as he persistently stroked his mustache. Seeing this, 
Morna plied her oars again, and turned the boat’s bow to- 
ward the shore. 

The captain remained silent, but as they passed further 
and further from the spot, the color returned to his cheeks, 
his hand grew steadier, and the old light seemed to sparkle 
in his eyes. Morna rowed on in silence ; in silence too 
she ran the boat upon the sand, leapt out and made her 
fast, and not until the two had climbed the cliffs and 
were walking over the hills towards home, was the silence 
broken. Then Bisson turned to the girl. 

Mon Dieii ! lie said, “but it is a nasty spot out 
there where the ‘ Hortense ’ strike ! ” 

“ Indeed it is,” returned Morna quietly, with her eyes 
fixed steadfastly upon the ground. 

“ But for you, machh'e,'' Bisson continued, with some of 
old vivacious manner returning, “ I shall be lying out there 
at the bottom of tlie sea, with the crabs crawling about my 


FATHER MOV. 


55 


bones, and the shrimps clinging to my face and hair. 
Sainted Virgin ! that is a picture! Tell me, leetle one,” 
and Bisson’s soft voice grew more honeyed in tone, “ why 
was it you keep me from those monsters which wait for me 
in the sea ? ” 

Morna raised her eyes and looked quietly in his face. 

“ Because,” she said, “ you were breathing still, and it 
would have been a sin to have thrown you in ! ” 

“ Was that all ? ” asked Bisson. 

“ Surely ! was it not enough ? ” 

Bisson’s face contorted. He turned again to Morna and 
was about to .speak, but she had left his side. The next 
moment Dunroon stood before him, and asked, in his 
heavy voice and strong patois, if he had seen the reef. 

“ Certainly,” returned the captain blandly, “ I have 
inspect it well, and it is an evil spot. It make one dizzy to 
think of such. The ‘ Hortense ’ is lost without a doubt, 
and as I say, ’tis only through the mercy of the blessed 
Saint’s — and — 3^our daughter,” here he turned smilingly to 
Morna, “ that I, Emile Bisson, am still a living man — and 
safe ashore.” 


CHAPTER IX. 


FATHER MOY. 


NE day, about a week after that on which Morna and 



Captain Bisson rowed out to see the Creag na Luing, 
Morna sat at home with her father. Dunroon was mend- 
ing his nets, and Morna, bending over the old Irish Bible, 
was reading aloud. Bisson, not caring to be present at 
this ^Derformance, had wandered out on the hills, and 
Morna, with many intermittent yawns and sundry glances 
towards the door, had wearily continued her task. She 
had read thus for about an hour, when suddenly she closed 
the book, leapt to her feet, ran to the window, and looked 


out. 


“What is it, Morna ” asked Dunroon, glancing up from 
his work. 


56 


THE DARK COLLEEN. 


“ ’Tis the priest himself, father ! ” she replied, a delight- 
ed smile illuminating her whole face, “ don’t you hear the 
sound of Father Moy’s voice?” 

Then running hurriedly to the door, she threw it wide 
open, blushed, courtesied and smiled, and said in Irish, 

“ Your reverence is heartily welcome ! ” 

Dunroon quickly cast aside his nets, and striding to 
the door, stood by his daughter’s side and endorsed her 
caed fnille fealta.* 

Now for many days past Morna had had a great long- 
ing to see the priest. Not that she wished to confess, for 
the young boys and maidens of Eagle Island never sought 
the help of the priest till they were wed. When Father 
Moy came over, and “sessions” were held, the old women 
and men flocked in, paid their shillings, confessed, got 
absolution, and remained conscience clear for the time 
being. The priest’s visits being few and far between, they 
had always a good stock of sins to commit to his ears 
whenever he made his appearance amongst them. The 
young, however, were supposed to be without stain, though 
it must be confessed, had the priest possessed the powder, 
he would have willed it otherwise, for Father Moy would 
have liked much better to listen to a pretty girl than to a 
“ Cauliagh ” t at confession. Hitherto Morna had never 
wished to confess, she had had nothing to tell, nor, for that 
matter, could she now have explained what made her long 
for the appearance of the priest. She had committed no 
sin, no indiscretion, for which she wished absolution, yet 
she felt about her a vague restlessness which she thought 
might be allayed by the sacred presence. Father Moy had 
been her friend since she was a little child ; and Morna 
always felt glad, but never more so than this year, when he 
made his appearance at her father’s house. 

She stood before the open door, blushing and smiling 
in sheer delight. Throwing back his head, the priest sur- 
veyed her from head to foot, ere his broad-brimmed hat was 
, swept off, and his hand extended to her. Morna stepped 
' forward to take the hand, while her father moved aside for 
the priest to enter. 

^ Caed mille fealta. Hundred thousand welcomes, 
t Cauliagh, Old woman. 


FATHER MOY. 


57 

He was always welcome, this Father Moy, at every lit- 
tle meagre cabin on Eagle Island. The islanders looked | 
for his coming as they would look for fair weather in har- 
vest time, for he brought with him smiles, gladness, and ; 
plenty of news, from the mainland ; he came like the 
cuckoo in spring and the robin in winter, wafting good 
tidings before him on the wind, and sweeping away every 
spiritual misfortune which gathered around them, until the 
air was pure, and the faces about him bright, happy, and 
gladsome, as he wished them to be. He understood these 
islanders as did no other living soul. He spoke their 
patois, walked in their ways, and read their faces as one 
reads a page. Nevertheless he was not one of themselves, 
but had been born on the mainland, and sent by the Bish- 
op to Eagle Island when he was first made a priest, nigh 
thirty years ago. 

It seemed to Morna that Father Moy was very old, 
for she remembered him w'hen she was quite a little child, 
and he seemed to her to be quite old ihen^ though he was , 
ever rushing about the island, as if driven on by a hard | 
wind, and that seemed difficult for an old man to do., : 
Father Moy, however (though here and there little silver 
bristles might be seen in his closely cropped head), was 
only one or two years over fifty. The islanders thought 
him handsome, and so indeed, he was, but from head to 
foot he was every inch a priest. His eyes were large, 
black, and very piercing, and sometimes they shone out 
with a light that was far too wicked for his calling. He 
was a tall man, standing nigh six feet in his shoes, but | 
his figure W'as very portly, as round indeed as good whiskey i 
could make it. His head was always cast up very high, ' 
his shoulders thrown back, and his chest expanded, while - 
his arms worked as if a spring were inserted behind them. 

His clothes were always very big and loose, and very 
old ; they seemed indeed as if they were as old as Father 1 
Moy himself, for the coat turned quite brown as his hair • 
turned grey, the trousers grew threadbare, and the broad- 
brimmed hat, it seemed, changed color with the seasons, 
in winter looking quite black, and in summer, when the 
sun shone upon it, turning dingy brown, and in autumn, 
changing back to black again, 


58 


THE DARK COLLEEN. 


Although Father Moy was as poor as the fishermen on 
Eagle Island, he was always displaying his money, per- 
haps because he got so very little of it To a casual ac- 
quaintance, he might have appeared hard, unfeeling, and 
avaricious, because these were the feelings which he most 
persistently paraded ; in reality, he was neither of these. 
He was not spotless ; though a priest, he had his failings 
like his neighbors; but these failings of his worked harm 
to no one so much as to himself. Father IMoy, in fact, 
‘was fond of a glass of potheen; and his depraved taste 
was persistently encouraged by the islanders, who, direct- 
ly they heard that he was expected, diligently scoured the 
island in search of the precious fluid. 

Of all the houses on Eagle island, Dunroon’s was the 
one which the priest most frequented, not because Dun- 
roon was one groat wealthier then his neighbors, nor 
because the dwelling was a more commodious and com- 
fortable one, but because he was ^ ure to find there kindred 
spirits, and because Morna Dunropn was pretty, and 
Father Moy was never happier than when contemplating 
female beauty. 

Morna stepped forward to take the hand which he 
held forth. This was a more difficult thing to do than one 
would at first have conceived, for the sleeves of Father 
Moy’s coat were made very long, completely covering his 
“hands; and the little hands were constantly disappearing 
up them, as a juggler’s might do to bring down hidden 
packs of cards ! Morna was well used to the habits of 
the priest, for he came to the island long before she was 
born ; he had anointed her mother before she died, and 
had often given Morna a ride on those broad shoulders of 
his, when he was rushing about the island in his whirl- 
wind fashion. Knowing just when the little hand would 
re-appear, she made a dive, and, as it emerged, caught it 
by one of the little fat fingers and held it fast, while the 
priest’s dark eyes twinkled with delight (perhaps at the 
success of her manoeuvre), and his broad fat face seemed 
to shine ail over as he smiled down upon her. Dunroon 
again repeated his invitation for the priest to enter, and 
Morna, without waiting for his blessing, pulled. him after 
her right into the house, her face rippling all over with 
delight as she said. 


FATHER MOY. 


59 

“ We thought we should get no sight of you at all this 
year, Father — you were so long away ! ” 

And Dunroon asked, as he placed a seat for the priest, 

“ Is it good business that has kept yer reverence so long 
abroad ? ” * 

“ Good ! ” echoed Father Moy, in a deep Irish patois, 
as he sank into the chair, squared his shoulders, threw back 
his head, and eyed his host from top to toe as if he were 
measuring the powers of an antagonist ; “aye, good enough 
for that matter.” Then his broad face broke into a merry 
smile, and his fat hand came down with a smack upon his 
thigh, as he exclaimed, “ at the present time, ’tis Father 
Moy that’s the richest man in hlagle ! ” 

The priest always spoke of the island and of himself 
in that manner. It was a style of speech confusing to 
strangers, but the islanders knew him and understood. 

“ Surely that is good news, your reverence,” said Mor- 
na, quietly ; while her father, who had returned to his work, 
smiled grimly, and the priest continued looking at him in 
the same half-merry, half-hostile fashion. Then his shoul- 
ders were squared again, his chest was expanded, his little 
hand, taking a deep dive into his trousers’ pocket, re- 
appeared with a few pound notes and some silver in the 
clenched palm, which he held forth for the survey of the 
company generally. 

“’Twas only in one^day I made that T' he said, as he 
chuckled to himself, and eyed the money with his head 
cocked on one side in a meditative manner, “ and ’tis no 
bad day’s work neither. Two christenings and a wedding 
brought it me, but ’twas mighty hard work I had to get it 
to be sure, for one fellow was a rogue, I tell you, nothing 
more nor less, and ’twas for cheating me out of my proper 
rights that he was, entirely. But Father Moy was one too 
many for him.” The priest chuckled and eyed his com- 
panions’ faces. “When he came into the house beyond, 
quite meek, he laid half-a-sovereign on the table, and, 
‘Will that do, your rev’rence.^’ says he. ‘No,’ says I, ‘it 
will not do.’ and I turned my back upon him ; then he put 


Abroad. The natives of Eagle Island adopt this form of speech 
when speaking of the mainland of Ireland, 


6o 


THE DARK COLLEEN. 


down another quite slow, and ‘ Will that do ? says he ; 
‘ No,’ says I, roaring at him, ‘ it will not you dirty, mean 
rogue ; ’tis three whole sove?'eigns that you’ll put on that 
table, or you may go to the devil to marry you, for ’tis not 
to-day that you’ll get Father Moy out of this same chair ! ’ ” 

Morna looked into the Priest’s face and smiled rather 
confusedly, for she could not very well make out the drift 
of the pastor’s speech, nor could she discover what all this 
had to do with his return to Eagle Island ; but Dunroon, 
more initiated into the priestly eccentricities, knew that 
Father Moy must run to the end of his tether, before he 
could be brought to common sense ; so he quietly remarked, 

“ And did yer rev’rence get the money ? ” 

‘‘Get it,” repeated Father Moy, with a chuckle of de- 
light at what he believed to be his own sly cunning, “ sure, 
I couldn’t be showing it you now, if I didn’t get it. The rogue 
was not so bad after all, for ’twas through him I’ve come 
back with three pounds in my pocket — or rather I might 
have done, if I hadn’t given one of them back to the bride 
herself, the darling ! Ah, but the year has been a bad year 
for the priests, Dunroon.” Father Moy’s merry face grew 
grave. “ The crops have been bad abroad there, the mar- 
riages were few, and the young wives were just as barren 
as the soil itself, for that matter, and there was little work 
going for the likes of us. ’Twas a fead year abroad, but I am 
hoping it will be better on Eagle, for here the corn is ever 
good, and the fishing is fine, and there’s plenty of young 
colleens that want to marry, and Father Moy to find them a 
man ! ” And the priest threw back his head, slapped his 
fat thigh, and burst into a roar of boisterous laughter. 

This was Father Moy’s habitual mood. Scarce any of 
those people on Eagle Island had ever seen him sad, or 
for the matter of that, outrageously fierce, though despite 
his extraordinary good nature, there was one name, which 
if uttered in his ear, had the power to turn the sweetest 
potheen sour. 

Ever since Morna could remember, and that was very 
long ago, it seemed to her that there had been a constant 
passage of arms between Father Moy and one of his brother 
craftsmen, one Father Flynn of O’Mara, parish priest of 
Portaclare — a person who, save by repute, was utterly un- 


FATHER MOV. 


6i 


known to the inhabitants of Eagle Island, but of whose 
doings Father Moy had always a lengthened account to 
give, whenever he came over from the mainland. Father 
Flynn had, at an early stage of his career, been a curate of 
Father Moy, and at this period the feud, which was ulti- 
mately destined to give so much light and shade to Father 
Moy’s existence, had begun. Ever since that time it had 
been Father Moy’s constant endeavor to get Father Flynn 
removed from the priesthood, and it is most likely he 
would have succeeded in so doing, had his own character 
been spotless enough to bear inspection ; as it was, Father 
Flynn silenced all his threats with counter-threats, and 
Father Moy not having the smallest wish to have his own 
little idiosyncrasies laid bare, always ended by bottling up 
his wrath, and holding his peace. So Father Flynn not 
only continued in the priesthood, but was 23i'omoted from 
curate of Crome to parish priest of Portaclare, greatly to his 
own gratification and Father Moy’s disgust. 

Morna standing near the hearth with her hands crossed 
before her, quietly watched the priest, while her father 
continued his work. Presently Dunroon rose, cast aside 
his nets, and turning to the priest, asked, 

“ Is it long since your rev’rence left the mainland ? ” 

Father Moy turned to Dunroon. His brows came clown, 
his shoulders were squared, and every vestige of merri- 
ment disappeared from his face. 

“ I was holding a session,” he said, “ at Crome. That 
houchal was there.” 

The priest always spoke of Father Flynn in this wa)^ 
He had scarcely ever been known to mention him by name, 
but Dunroon understood and nodded. 

“ That man’s a disgrace to the joriesthood,” continued 
Father Moy, rising to his feet, and facing his host, “ a dis- 
grace to the priesthood, and the bishop shall know it be- 
fore I’m five days older. What right has a dirty, slavering, 
mean hound like that, that I could smash with only my 
right hand, to go about preaching the word of God Al- 
mighty. The man’s never sober, sir. He’s always smell- 
ing of potheen punch, and had punch too ! The houchal 
should be suspended, and so he will be, you’ll find, for he’ll 
not be allowed to disgrace himself and the priesthood in 


62 


THE DARK COLLEEN, 


the manner he is doing. I have myself written a letter to 
the Bishop, and it’ll be the worse for him ! ” 

“Your reverence has done so.?’’ exclaimed Dunroon 
and Morna both together, fairly staggered with amaze- 
ment at the idea of the long-pending threat being actually 
carried into execution. 

“ Bedad I did,” said the priest, with a knowing wink. 
The little hand dived into the inner pocket of his coat, and 
produced a few scraps of paper, soiled with whiskey and 
dirty thumb marks, and smelling strongly of tobacco ; from 
these he selected the dirtiest, and most crumpled, and 
holding it up to Dunroon said, “ And there it is, sir. In 
that paper I have told my lord Bishop the truth, that a man 
who smokes, and drinks bad punch, is not fit to be a priest.” 

Father Moy’s breast swelled with virtuous indignation. 
Dunroon, feeling it incumbent upon himself to make a 
reply, opened his mouth, but at that moment he got a 
whiff of Father Moy’s breath, which smelt so very strongly 
of the fluid mentioned, that he very wisely refrained from 
making any direct reply, merely observing, 

“ I’m thinking Eagle Island is betther than the main- 
land afther all, and your reverence might do worse than 
stay for good.” 

The priest’s eyes twinkled again, his shoulders were 
squared, his little fat hands ran up his coat sleeves, and 
then came running aimlessly down again. 

“ By the Lord I think you’re right, Dunroon,” he 
loudly exclaimed, “ for ’tis but a poor country at the best ; 
and as for the people, sure they don’t know how to treat 
man nor beast ; ’tis hard living amongst the likes of them. 
’Tis three whole months since I went away, and by the 
soul of my father, I’ve never once tasted a good drop 
since I left jw/ 

Dunroon smiled, and turned significantly to Morna ; 
she, taking the priest’s broad hint, was already half way 
across the floor. She was about to leave the room when 
suddenly she paused, clapped together her hands, and 
burst into a peal of merry laughter. 

There was a clatter, a clamor outside, and a trampling 
of feet. Suddenly a mysterious head was thrust inside the 
door of the cabin. 


THE VAGRANTS. 


63 


CHAPTER X. 

THE VAGRANTS. 

'~PHE head was not a human head ; only that ot an ass ! 

A little plump donkey, with a rough coat, and soft 
brown eyes that looked into your face as if they knew your 
thoughts and understood them. 

Beside it stood a peculiar-looking little man, clad in a 
costume which closely resembled a beggar’s rags. His 
feet were bare. His trousers had evidently been presented 
to him by some very tall man, for the upper portion was 
so baggy that it reached half way down his legs, and the 
legs were so long that they had to be turned up nearly to 
his knees. His coat was a thick cota mor or frieze great- 
coat, and it was cut in the modern fashion ; it had evident- 
ly, however, been presented to him with the trousers, for 
it was large enough, round the body, to cover two persons 
of his size, and so long at the back as to sweep the floor 
lilve the train of a gown, while in the front it would have 
tripped him up at every step, had it not been cast open 
from the waist, and thrown back in large folds. The coat 
and the trousers were in the last stages of decay. What 
color they ever had possessed had entirely faded, and here 
and there might be seen sundry openings in the cloth which 
freely admitted draughts of air, and so prevented the 
warmth of such a dress from becoming too oppressive. 
Beneath his arm he carried a tambourine. 

His face was long and sharp as that of a weasel ; his 
eyes small and keen, and of a green color. Plis cheeks, 
from a constant habit of grinning, were puckered up into 
deep furrows and wrinkles. For Barron O’Cloaskey’s face 
was never grave, nor was his tongue quiet. “ I must be 
laughing and talking with a merry heart when I have the 
music near me,” he would say ; and as the music was 
never away, the face was never grave, and the wrinkles 
were never smoothed out. On his head, and perched 
rather on one side, was a broad-brimmed black felt hat, 


THE DARK COLLEEN. 


64 

which, ill the dark ages, had been presented to him by 
Father Moy, and which completed his extraordinary cos- 
tume. 

He stood by the donkey with his hand twisted in its 
mane and his face grinning broadly at the company as- 
sembled. 

Beside him, perched on the ass’s back, was old Cullen 
O’Cloaskey, his father, who, if his own account' might be 
credited, was about double the age of his son, who counted 
nigh fifty years. He was certainly very old. In appear- 
ance he was the utter opposite to Barron. He was tall 
and very thin, and had obviously been a man of extraor- 
dinary physical strength. His dress, though rather rusty 
here and there, was such as any old gentleman might 
wear ; his hair, white as snow, fell loosely over his shoul- 
ders ; his features were powerful and strongly marked, his 
voice deep and very mellow. Not until he had alighted 
from his dbnkey, and his feet had touched the ground, 
could the ravages of age be very strongly perceived in him, 
for his figure was straight and strong looking, his voice 
did not waver, nor did his ideas ; but when he stood down 
his legs trembled, and he had to lean heavily upon a 
stick. 

To this old man, although he was but a vagrant seek- 
ing his bread from door to door, Morna courtesied almost 
as profoundly as she had done to the priest himself ; for 
although he was now compelled to travel the country, 
there were those who remembered “ Mr. O’Cloaskey ” a 
happy and prosperous man, living on his farm, with cows 
and pigs about him, and, some said, an old stocking stored 
with the wherewithal to buy good things in the coming 
years. The bad limes came, and brought misfortune with 
them to the 0’Cloaske3^s. The wife died, with two of the 
sons, and the money was spent, the house was taken from 
them, and Barron and the old man were left no means of 
living. 

So Barron, who was never dull and despairing as some 
are, proposed that they should travel about and earn their 
living, as many had done before them. He knew that the 
old man could play the flute, and he himself could play 
tlie tambourine ; so he thought they would do well, 'riiis 


7 HE VAGRANTS. 


65 

was a sore blow to old Cullen, who had done well during 
his life, and had never needed to beg or go short, and who 
in his old age did not like to become a beggar ; but Bar- 
ron, who saw nothing better for them to do, persisted in 
his proposal, until the old man yielded. 

Since then, the two had travelled about from place to 
place. They were always welcome ; for although the old 
man was occasionally somewhat wheezy, and there was 
little variety in his ancient tunes, he was always ready and 
willing to play those that he did know with great assiduity. 
Besides, he had travelled. He had worked in England 
when he was young, and had seen great English towns, and 
he had been twice to America. He remembered the inva- 
sion of the French in Ireland, and he could tell how he 
had stood on a height in Killala, while the great French 
ships came sailing into the bay. He could speak, too, of 
the bad times, and that is always interesting to an Irish 
ear : — of how the potatoes had rotted, and the people had 
starved and been carried by thousands to their graves. 
Barron, on his part, was an excellent story-teller, a retailer 
of fiction, not fact, file could tell of giants, and fairies, 
and water-spirits ; and his tales were interesting to young 
and old. So wherever they went, the vagrants had been 
always welcome, bringing with them as they did plenty of 
music, and plenty of fun. 

As the old man grew older, his legs became weak, and 
he could no longer walk as he used to do. So Barron had 
to spend the little they had saved and to buy an ass to 
carry his father with him. It was a poor way of life to 
people who had seen better days, but at length the old man 
grew resigned, and thanked the Lord for the small blessings 
which were left him ; while Barron was always able to 
smile at misfortune, and take the world’s rebuffs with a 
tolerably good grace. His father’s flute and his own tam- 
bourine yielded enough to keep them, and to dress his 
father ; and as for himself, why there were plenty of Irish 
gentry on the mainland who were willing to clothe him 
when his needs were made known. What though the 
clothes were a bit old and ill-fitting, sure they were good 
enough for a little fellow like himself who needed a long 
coat at times to make him look taller! and who at other 

5 


66 


THE DARK COLLEEN. 


times, when it suited him, wanted a short coat to make 
him look shorter ! and as for the holes, why it was quite as 
well for a man, and a good deal better too, to have the 
wind blowing about him, and keeping him cool and in good 
health, as to be shut up like a pig in a poke and never to 
feel the “ breath of God ! ” 

As such philosophical reasoning suited his case, Barron 
O’Cloaskey was willing enough to adopt it ; and when 
others would have bemoaned their bad luck, and the 
blessings which were taken from them, he calmly grinned 
at misfortune, and made the most of the blessings which 
happened to be left. 

With Morna Dunroon the little man was a favorite ; 
for he travelled “ abroad,” as the girl, like all the rest, 
expressed it when speaking of the coast of Ireland, and he 
brought her ballads and news, and sometimes a ribbon too, 
from the mainland ; and to Morna this was like a token 
from Heaven or fairyland. It was but seldom that the 
vagrants came to Eagle Island, for they travelled far. At 
every feast, and wake, and wedding, their faces were seen, 
and the old man’s flute and Barron’s tambourine were 
heard. But every year when the “ King ” was elected, they 
sailed over to the Island and made merry at the feast. 

When Morna saw the ass, which with the old man on 
its back, had walked right into the house, she clapped her 
hands with delight. The ass raised up its head and brayed 
aloud, Barron grinned and held fast to its mane, and the 
old man lifted his hat reverently. 

“ May the Lord prosper all who dwell in this house,” 
said the latter, “and may you enjoy every blessing agree- 
able to your heart and mind. Amen, Jesus ! ” 

The hat was forthwith handed to Barron, who had left 
the mane, and stood like an obedient groom, waiting for 
his father to dismount. 

Barron O’Cloaskey, though he had little pride in himself, 
had a great reverence for his father. He liked to remember 
the time when the old man was well-to-do, farming his own ; 
and he loved to dress him now as became a superior, 
though he himself wore rags. 

“ The old gintleman has blood in his veins,” he would 
say with consummate pride, “ and what though he has come 


THE VAGRANTS. 67 

down in the world a bit, sure anyone looking at him would 
know he was a gintleman born/’ 

And in a measure Barron was right, for old Cullen, 
through he sometimes went supperless to bed, and had 
only an ass on which to ride, was gentle in his bearing, and 
in his speech. 

Dismounting from his ass, he walked with a tottering 
but still stately step to the further end of the room, where 
sat the priest. Smilingly the priest arose, and with a 
hearty “glad to meet you, Mr. O’Cloaskey,” extended his 
little fat hand ; Dunroon placed a seat for him, while 
Barron again twisted his hand in the mane of the ass, and 
prepared to lead her to her bed in the corner of the outer 
room. 

But the cauliagh., as she was called, sternly refusing to 
stir, pawed the ground with her foot, brayed again, and 
moved a few steps forward to where Morna stood. At 
this the girl laughed again and looked into Barron’s grinning 
face. 

“ What ails her, Barron.?” she said. Barron grinned 
more broadly than before, and his little green eyes twinkled 
like twin stars. 

“ ’Tis sheer love at seeing yourself, machree' he said, 
“’tis anything but well she’s been this long time past, and 
the breath of the island and the sight of yerself is cheering 
to her heart.” 

Morna clasped her arms around the ass’s neck, and 
patted her on the head, while the soft brown eyes looked 
up into her face, and the beast brayed slowly again, as if 
acknowledging her caress. 

“ Leave her to me, Barron,” said Morna, “and go you 
inside to my father and the priest.” 

And when Barron demurred, 

“ Sure ’tis not yerself that should be putting up the 
ass.” 

Morna stroked the mane with her soft fingers and 
said, 

“ You must leave her to me, this once.” 

Barron grinned again. 

“ Isn’t it a very woman that you are for stubborness, 
and every bit like the cauliagh herself ! Didn’t I hold her 


68 


THE DARK COLLEEN. 


by the mane to keep her from walking in and didn’t she do 
it in spite o’ me, and ’tis little use stopping you when once 
you’ve got the notion, so have it your own way, machree!'^' 
And he stalked away, well knowing that his ass would 
receive gentle treatment at the hands of Morna Dunroon. 

The girl’s arms were still cast about the ass’s neck, and 
her fingers were gently smoothing the shaggy mane. As 
Barron walked away, she bent her head and whispered to the 
beast, as if it understood her ; ‘‘ You love Eagle Island bet- 
ter than all the world that you have seen, so you shall have 
a fine bed, and a good supper, for I will give it you ! ” 

The ass lifted its head and lovingly snuffed her cheek. 
Morna led it away, cast down a wisp of straw for its bed, 
put down some oats and some water, and when she had 
patted it again, and seen it contented, she hurried off to 
procure some whiskey for the priest. 

At the upper end of the inner room the travellers were 
collected in a small party. There was no fire and no lamp, 
but the evening twilight crept in at the window and the 
door. Old Cullen O’Cloaskey sat in the ingle, gravely 
smoking a black clay pipe, Barron stood near with his 
long coat flowing behind him like a gown, and his face 
grinning upon the old man with pride and pleasure. 
Father Moy sat at the table with his chest expanded, his 
arms folded, and his face grave, for Morna, lingering with 
the ass, had not yet returned with the whiskey, and Father 
Mo}^, who seldom sat in a house without a bottle by his 
side, found it hard to maintain a flow of spirits without 
imbibing a supply of them. Dunroon did not note the 
priest’s face, for he was busy talking to the old man. 

Suddenly all started. Barron O’Cloaskey whisked 
round his small body, and walked away, with his long coat 
sweeping after him, to the chamber where Morna had left 
the ass. The beast stood upon three feet, the hind leg 
was drawn up, and its ears laid viciously back. The oats 
were overturned, and the water was running along the floor 
in a stream. 

Barron looked grave. He stared at the ass, and then 
at the figure which had awakened in her such vicious pro- 
pensities. Ere he could speak a word the figure advanced 
and stood before him. It was Captain Bisson. 


THE VAGRANTS. 


69 


The captain’s face looked bright and smiling as ever, 
and while with the fingers of his right hand he carefully 
stroked his light mustache, his blue eyes rested upon 
Barron O’Cloaskey with a peculiar look, travelling from 
his face down to his feet, and then from his feet up to his 
face again. There they paused, the peculiar look gave 
place to a still more peculiar smile, and Bisson’s shoulders 
shrugged slightly. 

'‘'‘Mon Dieu.V he murmured in his honeyed tones. 
“The beast is a vicious beast you see. I do but this .V' 
and the white hand was slapped upon the haunches of the 
ass, “and she kick out — there, you see — like that!'' 

And as Bisson’s hand again descended upon the 
haunches of the beast, the drawn up leg was kicked out 
viciously again. 

Barron’s grave face grew graver still. The little man 
walked to the side of the ass, and put his hand on her 
mane, at which she raised her head, and brayed in his 
face. Barron again turned towards Captain Bisson. 

“ The ass is a gentle beast,” he said, “ but she knows 
her company, as any good Christian should, and ’tis not 
like her to be kicking out at an honest man ! ” 

Barron’s little head was thrown back, and the small 
green eyes twinkled defiantly upon Bisson, for Barron 
believed in the instinct of his ass, and as she had exhibit- 
ed her disapproval of Captain Bisson, he thought it well 
that Barron O’Cloaskey should do the same. So he threw 
as much dignity as he could into his small body, cast his 
big coat royally around him, and was about to move away, 
when his eye fell upon Morna, who had noiselessly re- 
turned to the room and now stood contemplating the pair. 
The girl’s face flashed upon him with a light that he had 
never before beheld upon it. 

“ Barron ! ” she said rapidly in Irish, “ ’ tis not so you 
must speak to Captain Bisson ! ” 

Ere she could say more, Bisson advanced in his usual 
bright smiling manner. 

“ JAz foi., Morna ! ” he said, “ our friend mean no harm. 
If he has a fancy for the beast, what matter ? he will know 
now that he must keep clear of its legs ! ” 

So saying he turned from Barron, and with a cold 


70 


THE DARK COLLEEK. 


smile and a shrug of the shoulders, walked into the kitchen. 
Gracefully saluting old Cullen and Father Moy he took 
his seat amongst the company. Turning from Barron, 
Morna followed the captain, walked up to the priest, and 
put on the table before him one large bottle of whiskey. 
Then after placing another bottle for the rest of the com- 
pany, she closed the door and the window, put a lighted 
lamp on the table, and sat down in the shade where none 
could see her features. Of all the other faces in the room 
her eyes wandered most to that of the priest. Morna 
loved Father Moy, and, moreover, she had been bred a 
good Catholic and taught to reverence her “ clergy,” and 
she felt now as always that her first duty was to see to his 
comfort. She knew his habits well, and had never for- 
gotten a story which her father often told about the first 
visit which Father Moy had paid to that house. 

* * * > * * * 

The priest then was only a young man, scarce thirty 
years of age, Morna was a little babe and her father was 
just made King’. The priest who had gone before was a 
temperate man, taking only his four or five glasses and 
then walking sober to bed. 

Father Moy was of a different mold, though none yet 
knew it. When he was elected their priest, they could not 
guess — who could ? — that eight tumblers of punch was his 
meagre daily allowance, and that oii festal occasions his 
capacious stomach could comfortabTy conceal eighteen ; 
they did not know this at first, but they were soon destined 
to be enlightened. 

That day \vhen his portly body first rolled into the 
dwelling, Dunroon, mindful of his visitor’s exalted position, 
and wishing perhaps to make an ostentatious display, 
placed a whole quart bottle two-thirds full of w'hiskey before 
the priest. To be sure it was the only bottle that the 
dwelling contained, and part of it was to be brought forth 
that very night, when several of the islanders strolled in, 
as was their wont, to smoke their pipes, tell stories, or dis- 
cuss their prospects, with the new King. The bottle was 
brought out that the priest might take his glass or two, 
and go away with a high opinion of the hospitality of the 
King ’’ of Eagle Island. Well Dunroon set the spirits 


THE VAGRANTS. 


71 


before the priest, and sure enough he sav/ the priest’s 
eyes twinkle at sight of them. After this he thought little 
more about the matter, for Father Moy was merry and an 
incessant talker. Pie wanted to ask about his new home, 
and he had plenty of funny stories to tell about his old 
one, while Dunroon, pleased and flattered at the priest’s 
good humor, forgot to note the glass after glass w'hich was 
disappearing from the whiskey bottle. Fie was destined 
soon to be a'.vakened to the true state of affairs ; fur in 
the middle of one of his funny stories, the priest turned to 
him, with his broad face smiling all over and his black 
eyes twinkling, and asked for a little drop more of the 
whiskey. 

“More wddskey is it exclaimed Dunroon rising to 
his feet, and quaking with fear, •“ is’nt this same to your 
reverence’s liking ? sure I think ’tis the very best distilled 
on the island ! ” 

He lifted the bottle and held it up to the light. To 
his amazement the bottle had been drained to the last 
drop ! Without noticing his host’s surprise, the priest, 
w'ho was as sober as he had been on entering the house, 
squared his shoulders, brought dowm his heavy brows, and 
looked at Dunroon fiercely as his custom was. 

“ The potheen is not bad ! ” he said, “ though for that 
matter I have tasted better \ a bottle of the same will do 
as well as another ! ” 

Dunroon was now fairly staggered with amazement, 
and in a moment he blurted out the truth. 

“ Begod then haven’t I given to your reverence every 
drop I have at all ! ” 

The priest did not answer a word ; but the smiles 
faded from his face, the tw’inkle from his eyes, and his 
little hands went running up his coat-sleeves in a myste-^ 
rious manner. Then he rose from his seat, lifted his hat, 
took his stick, a thick knotted stick, which he always car- 
ried, and which he was not slow to lay about the backs of 
any of his refractory flock, and walked in silence to the 
door. Then he paused, turned to Dunroon, and shook his 
stick fiercely at him. 

“ Is this the w'ay you entertain your priest at his first 
visit?” he said, throwing back his head, and bringing 


72 


THE DATA' COLLEEH 


down his brows in a threatening manner, “ ’tis not so you’ll 
treat me again, I say ; the next time I visit you, you’ll 
have liquoi' in ihe housed 

Turning his broad back, he stalked away in high dud- 
geon, at what he termed the meagreness of his entertain- 
ment. 

Many a time had Dunroon repeated this story, often 
indeed had it afforded him amusement, though- at the time 
of its occurrence it had caused him such bitter mortifica- 
tion. But it did eftectual good for the priest ; never after 
that had he cause to complain of the treatment cf the 
islanders. As he came to be known, he was beloved ; and 
ere he had been three months with them, there was scarce 
a man on the island who would not have sold his last pig, 
to procure a bottle of poth.en for Father Moy. 

When Moran placed the great quart bottle before him, 
the priest’s dark eyes twinkled, and the broad face bioke 
into a merry smile ; the shoulders were squared, the heavy 
brows came down, and the deep voice was soon heard 
ringing through the room in high glee. 

Amidst the circle sat Bisson, polite, good-humoured, 
still with that serene, self-satisfied smile upon his face ; 
and no one looking upon him, as Morna did from her dark 
corner, could have divined the thoughts that were filling 
his brain. 

“ Some new samples of savages,” he thought, after he 
had taken his seat amongst them. “JAr /d?/, wliat com- 
panions the little one has had ! ” and he smiled in satis- 
faction at his own superiority to the race. 

But Bisson was a shrewd man. Though he regarded 
these people as savages, he had no idea of gi\ ing them 
offence. His smile was brightest when he sat down 
amongst them ; he listened politely to the priest’s wan- 
dering, incoherent speeches, and he addressed old Cullen 
with the respect due to his years. And so he charmed 
them all. Dunroon was more than ever convinced that he 
had done well to save him from a watery grave, while 
Barron stood by, puffing at a short clay pipe, and grinning 
from ear to ear, for the moment utterly foigetful of the 
ass’s condemnation, in his delight at hearing his father 
addressed by a stranger as a “gintlemau born.” 


THE VAGRANTS 


73 


The captain was always sparing of his words, and now 
he saw that to please the company he must be particularly 
so, for of all things Father Moy liked best to hear the 
sound of his own voice. So Bisson listened, smiling sweetly 
the while, and put in a word here and there, when a chance 
afforded, and when it did no harm to anyone. 

As the whiskey grew lower in the bottles, the din be- 
came louder, and the talk more merry ; and unable to sit 
longer in the shadow, Morna came out into the light, and 
filled Father Moy’s glass, and listened to old Cullen’s 
stories — for she loved to hear the old man speak of the 
great world of which she knew nothing. 

Thus the night sped on, swiftly to Morna, but to Bisson 
slowly enough, for the company of the islanders was te- 
dious to him, and through them he was debarred from all 
intercourse with the only specimen interesting in his eyes. 
Fie sat and listened, talked and smiled, until the night was 
well spent, then he arose and wearily withdrew. 

Father Moy rose too, and, despite his eighteen tum- 
blers, still stood firmly upon his legs. He squared his 
shoulders, threw back his head, and his little fat hands 
went running mysteriously up his sleeves. Turning to his 
host, he brought down his heavy black brows. 

“Thai’s a fine man, sir,” he said, with the air of a man 
who expected contradiction, and would be greatly amazed, 
too, if he didn’t get it, “ that’s the finest man I’ve met in 
these parts for some time, Barron O’Cloaskey ! ” suddenly 
wheeling round to the little man. 

“ Sure, then, yer rev’rence is right,” quoth, Cullen 
O’Cloaskey, in his mellow voice. “ Fie is a gentleman 
every inch, though he belongs to the land of the French ! ” 

Dunroon did not repl3c Barron grinned, and was about 
to assent, when suddenly his mouth shut, his grinning face 
grew grave, and he glanced over his shoulder towards 
the ass. 


74 


THE DARK COLLEEN, 


CHAPTER XI. 

A SUMMER MORNING. 

T hat night, Moma slept little. At dawn she was out 
on the hill-side and running down towards the sea. 
The morning was cool, and the dew was heav}^ on the 
grass. Scattered here and there, the mossy thatched cabins 
gleamed moist with dews of dawn. Far away, behind the 
craggy mountain tops, the sun was gradually rising. Bright, 
crimson-hued clouds drifted across the sky, and faint lights 
played upon the basaltic crags, which, glittering with fel- 
spar and sparkling with salt sea ‘spray, rose in massive 
columns from the sea. 

At their base on the fissures of the rock, the purple 
weeds and sea flowers grew, spreading their tendrils far 
out upon the water, while above, like patches of snow on 
the dark face of the cliffs, legions of sea-birds sat in pairs, 
billing and cooing like turtle-doves in the morning silence. 
Far out over the sea the cormorants flew low down in 
flocks, settling upon the island rocks which here and there 
rose from the deep, and in the quiet waters near the shore 
the seals swam lazily, gazing about with pleading patient 
eyes. 

All the island was wrapt in sleep, but these creatures 
of the sea were busy. 

The little hamlets crouched silently, with closed doors 
and windows ; above and beyond them stretched dense 
clusters of shrubs and dwarf firs. Rising and falling on 
the sloping hill-sides, and in the valleys beneath, large 
tracts of shadowy corn s\vayed softly in the morning breeze. 
Up higher on the patches of grase-land the cattle stood, 
lowing softly ; — horses neighed, sheep bleated, while above 
them, high in the air, sailing towards the crags, was a pair 
of golden eagles, a male and a female, the only remaining 
specimens of that noble Bird to be found even on Eagle 
Island. 

Lightly and swiftly Morna sped along the hill-sides 


A SUMMER MORNING. 


75 

towards the sea. Barefooted, bareheaded, with her loose 
hair streaming behind her, she ran through the purple 
heather and long grass. As she went, the hare started 
from its form, and sitting up on its haunches looked at her ; 
and the curlew cried, and the green plover tumbled in the 
air above her head ; while the heron rose with slow beat 
of wing and lazily sailed away. All around was silence; 
save for the crying of cattle, and the whirring cf wings. 

Her cheeks were red with running, her eyes sparkled 
in the light, and her upturned hands cast back her boating 
hair. On the edge of the cliff she paused and stood gazing 
over the sea ; then, leaping lightly from the crag, she de- 
scended from ledge to ledge, sure-footed as any mountain 
goat, until she reached the shore. 

Withdrawing into an opening in the rocks, she cast off 
her clothes, and was soon out in the water, swimming as 
the seals sw^am, and di\ ing and floating with her hair scat- 
tered on the water like drift- weed ; and she raised her 
head and laughed a clear ringing silvery laugh ; and the 
wild cliffs echoed her, while the w'ater washed softly at her 
throat, and the full blaze of light streamed down upon her 
face and sparkled on her drifting hair. Now she floated 
like a lifeless, listless body upon the ocean, then with her 
W'-hite arms she cut the water again, as she struck out 
tow^ards the islands which appeared just above the surface 
of the sea. 'The cormorants rose in one dense black flock, 
and the seagulls wheeled from the rocks, hovering and 
screaming above her ; and seals arose and looked at her, 
then sank lazily again and appeared no more. Thus, as 
she floated there, she herself seemed like a creature of the 
sea. At last she raised her head, looked around her, and 
stretching out her arms, sw'am gently tow^ards the shore. 
Creeping again iirto her nook, she drew on her clothes, 
and bound up her dripping hair. Then, running again 
from ledge to ledge up the rugged cliff she emerged upon 
the crags, leaving the birds and seals to the undistuibed 
possession of the w’ater belowe 

All the island seemed awake now', and everybody w'as 
stirring. 

From the cabins faint lines of smoke were ascending, 
in fleecy curls, which clung about the overhanging peaks 


THE DARK COLLEEK. 


76 

and craggy mountain tops, until they faded away absorbed 
in the warm ether. The cattle had been driven down from 
the shielings; and island-girls, running deet-tooted over 
the moor, crouched down half-buried in the purple heather, 
and drew the milk from the animals which stood meek- 
eved beside them. Here and there bare-footed boys 
scoured the mountain heights, looking like pigmies up neai 
the sky, while the fishermen, carrying upon their shoulders 
their piles of nets, toiled shoreward, anxious for their 
labors to be ^in. 

When Morna saw this she knew that she had delayed 
too long ; so she ran swiftly over the heather again, until 
she reached her home. On the threshold she paused, for 
the whole of the company were assembled in the room 
before her. 

In the middle of the floor, the table, around which the 
company were seated, was spread for breakfast. A large 
sieve of steaming potatoes stood upon it, with bowls of 
fresh milk, and a large plate of bu'ter. Father Mo~y held 
on tenaciously to a large black bottle, which stood by his 
side ; Dunroon and the two O'Cloaskeys were eating heart- 
ily at the potatoes ; but Captain Bisson sat sipping daintily 
at his bowl of milk, and glancing half contemptously at the 
rough fare before him. 

Advancing into the room, Morna took her seat at the 
table. 'The whole company saluted her ; Bisson drew near 
to her side, bent gracefully towards her, and whispered in 
her ear. 

Far iisu, leetle one, but 5’ou look sharming! ” he said, 
“we find not such roses even in beautiful France ! ’’ 

Morna smiled and blushed. Unconcernedly stretching 
forth her hand, she took one of the steaming potatoes, 
squeezed it in her palm and began to eat. With his cheek 
resting upon his hand, Bisson sat and watched lier, as she 
set her white teeth into one after another of the hard 
brown potato skins. . . . For beauty like that of iMorna 
Dunroon is not nourished on thin air, nor on the meagre 
crumbs of sentimental love wliich sometimes fall to its 
share. i\Iorna had been up since dawn, she had had a 
long walk and a long swim ; so in the present instance we 
cannot wonder that she found Captain Bisson’s pretty com- 


A SUMMER MORMING. 


77 


plimentary speech altogether insufficient to supply the 
cravings of nature. 

When the breakfast was quite over, and the table was 
cleared of all save the whiskey, Morna took her white 
scarf and bound it about her head and shoulders ; the 
priest drained the last dreg from his bottle ; and the ass 
came in, put her head over the priest’s shoulder, and 
brayed in Barron’s face. 

Bisson glanced angrily at the beast, but Barron rose 
and grinningly addressed the company. 

“She’s thinking it’s time for us to be moving,” he said, 
“surely she’s right. What for should we be lingering 
here, when the cauliaghs will be dying to welcome the old 
gentleman to Eagle Island. Begorracha !” and at the 
explosion of his favorite oath his face broke into its broad- 
est grin, “ ’Tis no sooner we’ll be amongst them than 
they’ll be clinging about him like bees in swarming time !” 
Then turning to the priest, with a humorous twinkle in 
his small eyes, he asked, “ Did the old women ever do 
that same to your reverence ? ” 

“ No,” roared Father Moy, as his dark eyes twinkled 
mischievously, and his fat hand came down with a whack 
upon his thigh, “ nor the young ones neither ; — that comes 
of being a priest ! ” At that he lay back in his chair and 
laughed aloud, and turning to Morna, gave such a pro- 
digious wink, that had she been less acquainted with the 
eccentricities of her pastor, she would have been greatly 
disconcerted ; as it was, having procured for him a fresh 
supoly of the whiskey, she s niled, and quietly asked if his 
reverence would take any more. 

“ Half a one !” exclaimed Father Mo}^ throwing back 
his head and eyeing the bottle meditatively, “just half a 
one b'jfore starting. 

And he filled up his glass to the brim. 

By this time the ass was at the door, and Culletwwas 
seated on her back, while Barron stood with one hand 
twisted in the mane and the other holding his dilapidated 
wideawake hat ; the next moment, with a parting grin, he 
v;as trotting down the road by the ass’s side. 

Then Father Moy rose, though somewhat reluctantly, 
buttoned his coat around him, tucked his stick beneath Iris 


THE DARK COLLEEN. 


78 


arm, and placed his broad-brimmed hat above his smiling 
face. Dunroon shouldered his nets, and Morna, with 
Bisson beside her, stood close to the door. Dunroon 
turned to the priest. 

“Maybe,” he said, “ yer rev’rence would first step 
down to the shore, to bless the boats before they go out, 
for the fishing has been failing of late, and we’re thinking 
’tis for want of that same blessing that it is so.” 

Smilingly the priest consented, and the party set out 
over the hills. When they reached the shore they found a 
line of fishing-boats, laden with nets, drawn up along the 
water's edge, close to the Moruigh Dubh. On the sands 
the crews were collected, each man squatting upon his 
hams, smoking a short black pipe, and calmly regarding 
the island piper, who stood a few paces off, scarlet with the 
exertion of filling his pipes. At the appearance of the priest, 
each man rose to his feet and pocketed his pipe, while the 
piper, fiercely working his left arm, struck up the air of 
“ Soggartlr Aroon.” The priest smiled merril}^, his little 
fat hand was raised, his broad hat swept off, and, amidst 
a shower of welcomes, he descended to the beach and took 
his stand before the boats, with Dunroon by his side. 
Around these two the men ranged themselves respectfully, 
vrith their bare heads bowed, and their rough hands crossed 
before them. With a little difficulty, Father Moy managed 
to extract from his pocket a small breviary, from which he 
read — -or rather galloped over — a short Latin prayer. 

It was rather a pride with him, this quick praying; in 
fact he regarded it entirely as a fine art, for he had been 
known to boast, that, through long practice, he could say 
mass in half the time it took an ordinary priest ? When 
the prayer was done, he drew from his pocket a small 
dilapidated-looking ebony crucifix and dipped it into the 
sea ; then he scattered some water upon the six boats and 
exclaimed over each, 

“ God send you a good fishing !” 

A perfect shower of amens followed. The men were 
about to cover their heads, when the priest’s little fat hand 
was raised in the air, and his deep voice demanded silence. 
Then he dipped the cross again in the sea, and in a low 
solemn voice, begged the mercy of God, the Virgin, and all 


A SUMMER MORNING. 


79 

the Saints, for those poor souls who had gone down in the 
last wreck on the Creag na Luing. 

As he said the words, th^ men crossed themselves, 
bowed their heads, and glanced uneasily at Captain Bisson ; 
but when he had finished, they saluted him, and pushed 
their boats out eagerly upon the sea. The Priest tucked 
his stick under his arm, nodded to Morna, doffed his hat 
to Captain Bisson, and departed. 

During the enacting of this scene Bisson stood, slightly 
indifferent it is true, but bareheaded like the rest ; but 
when reference was made to the drowned sailors of the 
“ Hortense,” his face expressed great agitation. For a 
time, after the Priest’s departure, he stood leaning against 
a rock, and gazing wistfully at the boats as they disappear- 
ed, one by one, through the dripping archway of the 
Moruig Dubh ; at last, suddenly recollecting himself, he 
left his place and quietly approached Morna’s side. 

Afa petite^' he said, bending quite close to her and 
almost whispering the words in her ear, “ you have hear 
M'sieur le Cure ask such blessing before ? ” 

Morna turned and looked at him, and he saw that her 
face was quite pale. 

She nodded her head. 

“ And 3^ou would listen so had he ask a blessing for 
7ne — had I gone down in the ‘ Hortense ? ’ ” 

Her cheek grew a shade paler, but her voice was steady 
when she replied, 

“ Maybe, but then I should not have known you ! ” 

“ Ah, 7no;i Dieu, but you are right, Morna, it would all 
be change then, would it not Then, look you, I might 
have been angry with the saints ; as it is, I bless them ! ” 

“ For granting you life } ” 

“ Partly, Morna ; for drifting me here, still more ! ” 

“ Morna’s face lit up at once into smiles. 

“You like Eagle Island she said. 

Bisson smiled too and shrugged his shoulders. 

“ 2'olerablemeut well,” he said, “ though for that matter 
I have seen places I like better. Take you awa)', my 
Morna,' and I shall hate it with all my heart.” 

The girl’s face changed from white to red. She did 
not reply, but she turned from Bisson and moved away. 


8o 


THE DARK COLLEEN. 


Where go you, leetle one ? ” he asked. 

“ About one mile along the shore I have to walk, and 
then I climb the cliff to the hut of Truagh O’More ! ” 

“ May I come with you, Morna } ” 

“If you wish, but would you not like to be with the 
men at the fishing } ” 

The captain shook his head. 

“ Ma foi., I like better to be where I am ! ” 

Morna laughed. 

“ You are a sailor, yet you do not love the sea ! ” 

“ Pardon., you do not speak truth. I love the sea — yet 
there are things I love — well, yes I will confess it — love 
somewhat better ; one cannot help being mortal, made of 
flesh and blood ! ” 

Morna could not reply to this speech, so she walked on 
in silence by his side. Her eyes were fixed upon the 
ground, yet she felt a faint flutter in her breast, a burning 
spot on either cheek. Presently Bisson spoke. 

“ Morna ! ” 

She raised her head and looked him in the face. 

“ If I get wrecked again out there,” and he pointed 
with his right hand across the sea, “ would you do again 
for me what you have done ? ” 

There was no hesitation before she replied. 

“Yes, indeed I would! ” 

“ If all the men here work against you ! ” 

“It would make no difference.” 

Bisson smiled, that supreme self-congratulatory smile 
of his, and began stroking his soft mustache. Then 
reaching forth his soft white fingers he said, 

“ Give to me your hand, Morna 1 ” 

She laughed more awkwardly this time, and replied. 

“ No, I cannot ! ” 

“ Just for a leetle while, ma chere 

“ But I will not,” said Morna again ; “ see, we have to 
climb this, both of us, and we shall need our hands and 
our feet too, before we are on the other side 1 ” and she 
turned towards him and glanced mischievously in his face. 

As she spoke, Bisson looked before him, and’ saw the 
obstruction which blocked their path : a broad mass of 
rock, some three feet high, running from the cliffs right 


A SUMMER MORNING. 


out into the sea. C n the near side the sand was quite diy, 
but bevond the roc<^, the sea formed a narrow channel 
which flowed into a subterranean cave. 

In a few moments Bisson liad passed the obstacle, and 
stood on dry sand beyond the channel. I'hen Morna ap- 
proached, put her bare foot on a i ugged ledge of rock, and 
ascended step by step, until she reached the top. There 
she stood some feet above Bisson. On her light, tall cliffs, 
basaltic crags, and glittering columns of granite, rose 
heavenward, towering up one above another, revealing 
great Assures in the cliifs, and huge chasms, where the 
water gushed out in torrents and green patclies of pasture 
grew ; on her left the sea lay placid as any mirror. 

There she paused, above the channel which flowed 
between her and the sand. The sunlight streaming down 
through the great opening in the crags fell full upon' her, 
and lit up her brown face and sparkled on her white 
throat. For a moment only she paused, looking at the 
crags and at the sea, then turning, gave one light, quick 
spring across the water on to the land beyond. 

Scarce had her feet touched the sand, when she felt a 
pair of strong arms around her, and a soft voice murmur- 
ing in her ear. 

“ Morna ! ” 

The voice thrilled through her, through every nerve of 
her body, and made her tremble. 

“ Morna, 7noii ange, speak to me one little word — tell 
me, now you are not so happy before I come ! ” 

Morna struggled to get free, and tremblingly cried, 

“ Let me go, let me go ! ” 

“ Never, I have you, and I hold you. Look at me 
Morna, speak to me, leetle one ! ” 

She neither looked nor spoke ; the next moment she 
was free. Her face was red, her bosom heaved, her lip 
quivered. She raised her eyes now, and looked him in 
the face. 

“ Morna, come here ! ” 

“ I will not,” she replied persistently, and decidedly, 
“you must not — you have no right to treat me so ! ” 

“ But I love you, my Morna,” the Captain said in his 
softest, sweetest tone. “ Come ! ” and he held forth his 

6 


82 


THE DARK COLLEEN. 


hands caressingly ; “ say to me, Morna, that 3'ou like me 
a little, too ! ” 

Morna stood silent still, with downcast eyes and trem- 
bling limbs. Bisson came nearer. 

“ Morna, speak ; answer me now !” 

She raised her eves at last, and looked at him steadily. 

“ You love me ? ” she faltered. 

Bisson smiled assent. 

“ I will swear it — by all the Saints 1 ” 

She did not answer, but looking up into his face, 
placed both her hands in his ; the Captain bent down, 
and kissed her on the lips. 

As they stood thus, hand in hand, lip to lip, silent, 
breathless, and dizzy, in the joy of love’s first kiss, they 
were suddenly startled by a shriek, a heart-rendering 
scream, uttered just above their heads. 

Morna started from her lover’s side, and looked up. 

There, ri^cht above her, a hu«re crane was darting and 
screaming, viciously pursued by a peregrine falcon. After 
a few passes in the air, the falcon darted at his prey with 
fatal precision, but the crane fell low to the earth, and, 
fluttering down towards Morna, alighted at her very feet : 
while his pursuer, skimming the edge of the water, and 
again rising in the air, flew away out to sea. 

The crane stood for a moment in panic, then it too 
rose, and settled on a ledge of rock about midway in the 
cliffs. 

Meantime Morna stood speechless ; at last she crossed 
herself and murmured, 

‘‘ It is an evil sign.” 

Bisson did not cross himself, but laughing aloud and 
taking Morna’s hands in both of his, he kissed her fer- 
vently again. 

Had they looked up at that moment, they would have 
seen a white face peering over the cliff right above their 
heads, but their eyes, intent upon each other’s faces, were 
quite unconscious of this presence. Moving away, they 
mounted a flight of steps wrought in an excavation of the 
rock and leading to the land above. 

*The common heron [ardca cinerea) is generally known in western 
Ireland as “ the crane.” 


mUAGII O’AIORE. 


83 


CHAPTER XII. 

TRUAGH O’mORE. 

R ight on the top of the cliff was crouching the figure 
whose white face still peered over the edge, looking 

down. 

A little man, not more than five feet high, with a figure 
strangely deformed, the bones of his back and chest pro- 
truding almost like a cttrragh^s bow, curving up, like the 
bow, into a sharp point ; between these two points, the 
head set rather close upon the shoulders ; the skin burnt 
brown, and the features well formed ; the eyes, which were 
of pale grey, very gentle and brooding in their expression. 

Truagh O’ More, for it was he, had been born deformed, 
and, moreover, had inherited a sickly constitution, though 
ere he grew to manhood his health had been in a measure 
restored by the life-giving breezes of the sea. 

Unable through his deformity to join in boyish sports, 
he had, during his youth, been left much to himself \ so he 
had occupied his time in rearing and training sea-birds, 
and in cultivating other tastes which were little in vogue 
amongst the Islanders. Seeing that the boy was studiously 
inclined, the Priest had taught him the rudiments of knowl- 
edge, or rather, for Father Moy had little of the scholastic 
turn, had put him in the way of teaching himself ; and 
Truagh, profiting by the hints, was soon proficient in read- 
ing and writing the English and the Irish speech. He had 
devoured with avidity the few books which the Priest had 
cast in his way, and others which Barron O Cloaskey had 
from time to time brought him over from the mainland. 

It was a rude education at best, but it placed him 
many strides in advance of the ordinary Islanders. De- 
spite his deformity, he was a skilful fisherman, often going 
out to sea in weather which made the ordinary fishermen 
shrink. It was partly on this account that the Islanders 
said, half in jest, half in earnest, that he was a fairy or sea- 
spirit, for it seemed to them, so often had he been capsized 


THE DARK COLLEEN, 


84 

and miraculously saved, that no water would drown him. 
Like Morna, he was an only child, his father having been 
drowned at sea, and all his life he had dwelt with his 
mother, in the house on the cliff, where he had been born. 
He and Morna had been children together, for he was 
only four or five years her senior ; and during his boyhood 
he would have found life very lonely, had it not been for 
Morna and her father. . 

Although Dunroon was rough in his speech and bearing, 
he was a kindly man at heart, and from the first he had 
befriended the poor cripple boy. He it was who had 
taught him sea-craft, and during the long winter nights, 
when it was the custom of the Islanders to gather together 
in the ingle, to tell stories,. dance, sing, and drink potheen^ 
Dunroon had taken Morna, who was quite a little child, 
and had carried her in his strong arms to the house on the 
cliff ; and while he had sat in the ingle smoking his pipe 
and' talking to the widow, Morna and Truagh had amused 
themselves according to their will. These had been very 
pleasant days to Truagh, and to Morna, too, for Truagh 
had taught her to read and write ; he had read to her 
strange tales from his books, and he had often given his 
last stock of money to Barron O’Cloaskey to bring her 
over presents from the mainland. 

As they had been in childhood, so they were as they 
grew older. Morna liked no companion so well as Truagh. 
Day after day, when her father was at the fishing and 
Truagh was at home, Morna would go with him on the 
hills, or the two would sit together on the crags, with the 
sea breeze blowing into their faces, and read, and talk 
about the strange things of which they read. 

This kind of life suited Truagh ; each day his eyes 
grew brighter, his cheeks browner, and his voice quite 
strong and merry. 

But to-day, as he crouched on the top of the cliff, his 
face was white as death, and his eyes looked troubled. 
Only a few moments before, while leaning over the edge 
of the crag, to call up his poor frightened bird, he had 
seen standing below him, with her hands clasped in those 
of Captain Bisson, her lips to his lips, her eyes gazing 
lovingly into his face. 


TRUAGH O' A/OR £. 


85 - 


For a moment Truagh had turned dizzy, and had 
clutched nervously at the edge of the cliff ; the next mo- 
ment he was leaning over again, whistling, calling, chirp- 
ing, and holding forth his hand to entice back his bird. 

About a hundred yards below him, the crane sat,"^ 
frightened still, with ruffled feathers and drooping wings. 
As Truagh called, it raised its head, stretched its long 
neck, and eyed him half suspiciously ; then the ruffled 
feathers were smoothed down, the great wings outspread, 
and a moment after the bird lit on the grass on the top of 
the cliff, close to Truagh’s side. 

When, at length, Morna and Captain Bisson emerged 
upon the top of the cliff, Trunghwas on his knees examin- 
ing the state of the bird. At sight of his figure Bisson 
uttered an exclamation, and drew back. Truagh only 
raised his head ; but Morna ran forward, dropped on her 
knees beside him, put one hand on his shoulder, the other 
she stretched towards the crane. 

“It was your bird, then ? ” she said. “ Did you see the 
hawk strike at it, Truagh } ” 

Truagh nodded. 

“ I was looking over the cliff here, and I saw it a// 

It was only a direct answer to her question, yet there 
was such a strange ring in Truagh’s voice that Morna’s 
heart gave a great leap against her side, and her cheeks 
grew crimson. She drooped her head, and remained silent 
for a moment, then she rose to her feet and said aloud, 

“ Truagh, you have not said a word of welcome to Cap- 
tain Bisson.’^ 

Rising to his feet, Truagh looked straight into Bisson’s 
handsome face ; as he did so, his lips compressed, his brow 
contracted, and he half turned away, saying in Irish, 

“ He has had a better welcome than any I can give ! ” 
Morna’s face grew grave; she looked scrutinizingly at 
Truagh. Near to her Bisson stood, with a half-smile, half- 
sneer, upon his lips, regarding the man before him with 
something of polite contempt. Finally he shrugged his 
shoulders, approaching Morna, and whispered in her ear. 

“ Your Truagh does not seem in good spirits to-day, 
leetle one — or — stay — it may be my presence which gives 
him the mal-dc-tetc\ I '.vill withdraw and await you on the 


86 


THE DARK COLLEEH. 


hill )^onder — do not linger too long.” And with a graceful 
wave of the hand he turned from her and sauntered away. 

Morna stood silent, annoyed, angry with Truagh, and 
herself. Another moment, and she would have followed 
Bisson without a word, but Truagh came up to her side. 

“ What has kept you so long away ? ” he asked. 

The girl turned half pettishly from him. 

“ It is well for you to ask that,” she said, “ since I 
come back too soon ; but I do not wish to stay j it is get- 
ting late, and I must hurry home ! ” , 

Truagh kept hold of her arm. 

“ At least you will come to the house and speak to 
mother. She will be angry if 3^011 pass the door.” 

Morna did not reply, but with Truagh’s hand still on 
her arm, she walked silently towards the house. 

It was only a poor cabin, smaller than many on Eagle 
Island, built up with rough pieces of granite rock thatched 
with straw, and standing back in a hollow, some hundred 
yards from the edge of the crag. The door was open, 
and on the threshold a hooded owl sat dozing ; before him 
promenaded a pair of black-backed gulls ; and farther 
away, seated on an upturned creel, was a young kestrel. 
This was Truagh’s family — no respectable-looking one, in 
good truth, for one of the gulls walked with a decided limp, 
the other trailed a wing, and the kestrel lost much of its 
dignity by perching his head on one side in order to see 
out of his sole remaining eye. Despite these defects they 
were treasured as trophies of ancient victory. The sea- 
gulls and the kestrel had been rescued long ago b}^ Truagh 
from a band of mischievous boys, who after having taken 
them from their nests, intended to finish their sport by 
stoning them to death. 

At another time Morna would have noticed the birds ; 
now she scarcely saw them. Pausing upon the threshold, 
she looked into her companion’s face. 

“ Truagh, why are you angry ? ” 

“ I am not angry ! ” 

“ But you are ! else why did you speak so just now— -it 
is not like you — and it troubles me. Captain Bisson is a 
gentleman, and I should not be pleased with an}^ one who 
was rude to him ! ” 


TRUAGH O' MORE. 


^7 

Truagh did not reply ; he merely put his hand on 
Morna’s shoulder and pushed her gently into the room 
where his mother sat. 

Creena O’More was a woman of about fifty years, with 
a long, care-worn face and hair thickly sprinkled with grey. 
When Morna appeared, she held out her shrivelled hands 
and explained in a pleasant enough voice ; 

“ What, Morna, macJu-ee., ’tis as good as the sunlight to 
see your face here ; what is it that has made you so long 
a stranger ” 

Without answering the question, Morna said, half- 
laughing, 

“ Did you think it was winter when you put down a 
fire like that, or are you hatching a fairy spell ? ” 

“ To drive the fish into the nets ? ” said Creena. ‘‘ I 
wish to God I could do that same, for ’tis but poor living 
we’ll have through the winter if the fishing keeps as it is ! ” 

“ What is the matter with the fishing ? ” asked Morna 
somewhat impatiently. 

“God save ye, child — is it you that asks me ” 
said Creena, astonished ; “don’t you know that the boats 
have been out again and again with no fish at all caught — 
aye never a one ! ” 

“ How should I know, since I have not asked.” 

Creena looked at the girl, but Morna turned away her 
face, walked over to the window, and looked out on the 
cliff. Truagh advanced into the room, and stooping over 
the fire, crushed some of the smouldering turf into the 
bowl of his pipe, as he quietly remarked, 

“ They say that the fishing got bad since the French-^ 
man came over here to Eagle ! ” 

“ Then they do not speak the truth ! ” said Morna, 
turning quickly upon him. 

“ Do you think it was safe to take him into the house, 
entirely,” said Creena. '^uxe\y ?na7)Ounieen, ’tis blaming 
you they’ll be, if anything keeps wrong ; and God knows 
w'hat they’ll do ! ” 

“ I do not care how much they blame me,” said Morna, 
flushing slightly. “ I did it, and, for that matter, I would 
do it again. Captain Bisson would not bring harm to 
anyone, I am sure, and they shall not harm him 


8S 


THE DARK COLLEEN. 


Creena glanced in surprise at the girl’s flushing face ; 
then her eyes instinctively wandered to her son ; who sat 
silent in the ingle with his eyes fixed steadily upon the fire. 

“ Maybe you were right then,” she said. “ It was like 
you, and who can blame you for wishing to save the 
sailor’s life. If he would only leave the island now, sure 
he might take along with him the bad luck that he brought, 
and little harm would be done maybe in the end.” 

Morna’s flushed face grew slightly pale. 

“ You seem as bad as the rest, Creena,” she said. 
“ Little help the Captain would have got from anyone 
here but myself. He shall not be sent away ; so long as 
he pleases to stay he shall be welcome. Good-bye, Truagh,” 
she continued, nodding towards him. “ It will not be 
long before we shall see you down at the Feast, for it 
comes earlier this year by one week, and that I came to 
tell you.” 

Truagh glanced towards her. 

“ I don’t think I shall come at all this year, Morna,” 
he said. • 

“ And why not } ” she asked in surprise, “ since you 
have always come, the feast will seem dull without you— 
and I — well, I shall not be pleased if you stay away.” 

Without awaiting a reply, she turned, and the next mo- 
ment was gone. 

Truagh sat by the fire until the bowl of his pipe turned 
cold. Then he knocked the ashes out on the hearth, put 
the pipe into his waistcoat pocket, rose, and began to pull 
down the nets which hung about the room to dry. 

“ Will you be for going to the Feast, Truagh ? ” asked 
Creena, suddenly looking up at him. 

“ I suppose so.” 

There was a long pause. 

“ Do you think Morna cares for the man at all ? ” 

“ Maybe I ” 

“ ’Twas an ill wind that blew him here. I wish to God 
he was away.” 

“ Why, mother ? ” 

“ Why ? ’Tis no good that’ll come to the land through 
hm, and ’twas an evil hour for Morna, too, when she took 
him in 1 ” 


CA P TAm BISSON EX TRA CTS A PROMISE, $9 
Truagh laughed bitterly. 

“ Morna was right ; you are as bad as the rest, mother. 
Why do you blame her for doing a good deed ? ” 

“ Blame her ! Sure I don’t wish to do that, but, do you 
think she did well, Truagh?” 

Truagh trembled, his face grew white and his voice had 
in it a strange unnatural ring, when he replied, 

“ I think she might have done a hundred times worse. 
She could not foresee what would happen, so she deserves 
no blame ; and if you want to please me, you’ll never say 
a word to her against the Frenchman again.” 

Dragging the nets after him, he passed out at the door, 
while his mother watched him in some surprise, wondering 
what could have made him so indifferent to the girl whom 
she had hitherto believed that he passionately loved. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

CAPTAIN BISSON EXTRACTS A PROMISE. 

/CAPTAIN BISSON,” Morna began, but Bisson in- 
V_y terrupted her. 

“ Ah Dieu ! Emile is sweeter,” he said, smiling superbly 
upon her. “ Let it be Emile ! Captain Bisson est mort^ 
vive Emile!''' 

“ Emile,” said Morna quietly and slowly. “ It is such 
a strange name that — not like our names on Eagle Island.” 
- ‘‘ Certainement non. Yet it sounds sweet from your lips, 

ma mie. Well, Morna,” and he touched her cheek with that 
■ • of fond superiority which became him so well, “ what 
.t that you wish to say ? ” 

“ I was thinking,” said Morna, quietly, “ that I might 
as well tell father about — ” she paused confused. 

“'About what, Morna } ” asked Bisson, smiling more 
sweetly than before. 

“Just what has passed between us — that you care for 
me.” As she spoke Morna drooped her eyes. She there- 
fore missed the expression which momentarily flitted across 
her companion’s face. 


90 


THE DARK COLLEEN. 


Here was a contingency which Bisson had not foreseen. 
He had made love to Morna, as he had done to many 
others before, without thoroughly understanding his own 
feeling with regard to her, or mapping out the course 
which he must ultimately pursue. When he spoke those 
words to her on the beach, he had merely been carried 
away by a passionate feeling of delight in her beauty, 
which he found it impossible to resist. 

Admiration of female loveliness was one of his weak- 
nesses ; a pretty face and a supple form were two sure 
passports to his favor, and as Morna was possessed of 
both these attributes it is easy to understand tliat she suc- 
ceeded, for the moment, in throwing the wily Captain off 
his guard. Still it was very annoying to have matters 
brought thus suddenly to a crisis, especially as he had as 
yet only thought of Morna as a plaything, a sort of toy for 
him to sport with until such time as he thought fit to take 
his farewell of Eagle Island and travel back to France — 
leaving her behind to console herself in the society of one 
or another of the dull-souled islanders. As to making her 
his wife, the thought had never once entered his head. 

In point of fact he had from the beginning regarded 
the islanders as little superior, in their moral and 
social standing, to those savages who dwell in the islands 
in the South Seas ; and though he of course knew 
that Morna was more enlightened than her benighted 
neighbors it yet followed, as a matter of course, that a 
girl whose whole life had been spent amongst such savages 
must be in every respect immeasurably inferior to Captain 
Bisson, who had sailed the “ Hortense ” from Hantour to 
Ballyterry, who had danced at the Mabille, and who had 
played dominoes and drank cafe noir at the little drinking 
restaurants in Hantour. Yet because he had spoken one 
word of love a^d taken one kiss (how often had he not 
rehearsed that performance before !), here was the girl 
blindly assuming that he had asked her to marry him, and 
wanting to make the whole island ring with the news be- 
fore the words were well out of his mouth. 

Had the situation been less awkward it would have 
been amusing. The bare idea of the thing ! One might 
as well link one’s fortunes with a Hottentot, as lake to 


CAPTALV BISSO.V EXTPACJ'S A PROMISE. 


91 


one's bosom a native of Eagle Island ; so thought the 
liigh-souled captain. A love affair was another matter, 
and a savage would do as well for that as a civilizee, al- 
ways providing she was charming. Morna was pretty and 
very interesting, and of a species of humanity with which 
he had been brought little in contact, and a few months 
with her would not be spent amiss or unpleasantly. Vj-ai- 
ment ! A love affair was quite feasible, quite the right 
thing under the circumstances ; to that the Captain had 
no objection, though he would not have it ringing over the 
Island as this dark-eyed beauty seemed to wish. 

Before replying, he looked around to see if anyone had 
heard her words. 

No one had heard. 

The hut of Truagh O’More was left far behind, and 
already it seemed to be fading away in the vaporous star- 
light which was gradually falling on the land, and casting 
its veil about the hills, over the crags, and along the sur- 
face of the sea. Through the mist they saw the figure of 
Truagh sitting by the door mending his nets, and his face 
was turned seaward. He could not hear what they were 
saying ; so Captain Bisson’s face was quite bright when 
he turned to Morna. 

“ Ma petite^’’ he murmured in a voice soft as the cooing 
of a dove, “you must tell no one.” 

Morna looked mortified. She put her hand in his and 
turned to him her gentle appealing eyes. She had.^thought 
it all over since Creena’s words ; it had passed like a 
lightning flash through her brain ; and she had arranged 
in her mind what she must do. She did not wish jr^o talk 
about her love, all she wanted was to keep her lover, to 
enlist her f ither’s sympathies on his behalf, and to save 
him from danger, should any threaten. And danger did 
threaten, if Creena spoke truth, and Captaiii;,bisson would" 
need all the protection of Dunroon and -hTS claughter to 
keep him sufe on Eagle Island. She did not tell him this, 
but she said, turning her face to his, 

“ Why must I not tell my father ? I have had no secret 
from him since I was born. ” 

Bisson smiled on her superbly. What a world of mean- 
ing there was in that smile ! It seemed to say, “ You must 


92 


THE DARK COLLEEK. 


not tell him, little one, because I, lord of creation, command 
it.” He did not say that in so many words, howev^er, but 
he turned to her quite pleasantly and murmured : 

“ Morna man an.g^, I fear you love me not as you say ? ” 

Morna, drooped her eyes. 

“ Yes, yes ! ” she answered steadily. 

“And will you then like to be torn from me, Morna?” 
he continued in the same soft dove-like voice. 

“ So soon ? Oh, no ! ” 

“ Then tell not your father, my own, for I know he is 
a violent man, and shall I tell you what he will do ? well, 
he will plunge a knife into my heart at once, or send me 
back to the sea to pine and die for you ; that is what he 
will do to me, Morna, for stealing your love away.” 

The girl looked at him in surprise. 

“ You do not know my father : he would never do 
that,” she said. 

“ But he might, 7na chere^ I say he might, if he was 
enrage. Stay, he would not, for I would sail to France I 
tell you if you told our secret, and then I shall be safe 
beyond the reach of you all.” 

“ You would leave Eagle Island ? ” 

The soft palms of Bisson’s hands were spread out plead- 
ingly before her. 

‘‘ Farbku / what else could I do ? Much as I love 
you, I have not the wish to have ray throat cut like a 
sheep.” 

This seemed sound logic to Morna, and she began to 
wonder why she had ever been so stupid as to wish to tell 
her father, since she knew that he would turn against Cap- 
tain Bisson for loving his only child, and she would lose 
her lover, make her father wretched, and gain nothing at 
all in the end. Certain!}'’ it had been foolish of her, but 
she had felt unhappy at ha\ing a secret, and she had 
wished to protect the captain from harm. Seeing that she 
was silent, Bisson turned to her again. 

“ Ma he said, “ I see you care not for me as I 

for you, or you will not wish to tell so much.” 

“It Is because I care for you that I wish it,” said 
Morna. quietly. 

“ Moji DUu, then it is strange affection that will plunge 


TRUAGH KEEPS WATCH, 


93 

way you 


cold steel into a man’s heart. Is that the 
islanders love, my Morna?” 

“ We love as others love,” said the girl sadly, “ only we 
do not kill our lovers, as those wicked women on the main- 
land I have heard of from Barron. I would shield you 
from danger, not force you into harm.” 

Cordieu exclaimed Bisson, in his winning tones, 
“ if you will shield me, Morna, you must do as I tell you. 
You must trust me as I trust you — ah, so much ! — and you 
must hold your peace and shield me from that fiery one, 
your father. We may be very happy on this island of 
yours if you do this. Promise me, my Morna, promise me 
now.” 

Bisson’s arm went round her waist as his honeyed voice 
rang in her ear, and his blue eyes smiled supremely upon 
her. Morna felt a vague dreamy feeling of pleasure steal 
over her when she looked into those eyes, and she gave 
the promise which he asked, for she felt she could refuse 
him nothing. Before she could think again, she felt Bis- 
son’s lips kissing her lips, and his arm clasped more tightly 
around her, and she did not know whether to feel glad or 
sorry at what she had done. She only saw that he seemed 
glad, and, as* a hound watches the varying moods of its 
master, she caught the reflection of his joy and rejoiced 
too. 


CHAPTER XIV. 


TRUAGH KEEPS WATCH- 


HAT same night, when Morna Dunroon lay in her bed 



J- sleeping quietly, and dreaming her first love dreams, 
Truagh O’More sat smoking by his fire. 

It was past midnight. 

His mother had long since sought her bed in the 
inner room ; and his birds each standing on one leg in the 
corner on its bed of straw, with its head tucked under its 
wing, were all asleep, save one. The owl, which had now 
awakened into full consciousness, promenaded restlessly 


94 


THE DARK COLLEEK. ^ 


about the floor, and paused now and again to hoot at his 
master. The cry had been repeated half a dozen times, 
and Truagh had taken no heed. At length the exasperated 
bird rose up, and flapped its wings in his face. 1'hen 
Truagh lifted his head as if he had been dreaming. His 
pipe was out. He put it down on the hearth, reached 
some fragments of raw fish from a ledge in the wall, threw 
them to the bird, and, while it was making frantic efforts 
to choke itself, by violently gobbling the fish up as if it 
were a mouse, Truagh began pacing the floor. 

He had been sitting on that ferm by the fire for hours : 
the fire had smoldered away into grey ashes ; his limbs 
were stiff, his face was white, and his eyes were heavy and 
wearied-looking. He was thinking over his life since he 
had been a child. That time was not a very happy one to 
contemplate. 

In straining his vision back over all those long weary 
years, it seemed to Truagh that he had had one long life 
of humiliation and bitter disappointment. He had been 
born a man, with a man’s natural sympathies, natural feel- 
ings, and natural heart — yet all those tendencies which are 
ordinarily fostered in men, had in him to be suppressed. 
From childhood upwards his lot had been a weary one ; 
chagrin had been heaped on chagrin, until he had grown 
accustomed to pain. The only stray gleam of light in his 
life had been his affection for Morna Dunroon. 

This affection, whatever its nature might be, he had 
allowed to grow silently and surely, day by day, month by 
month, until the girl’s life had mingled as it were with his 
life, and to take her from him now would have been like 
tearing out his heart. He had been as one dreaming; 
he was awakened to full consciousness at last. 

Truagh could no longer conceal from himself the fact 
that he had been allowing a terrible hallucination to grow 
in his brain, that he had been hoping against hope, fondly 
cherishing the idea that some day a strong physical love 
might exist between himself and Morna Dunroon. All 
this had been revealed to him in a flash, just as the cup 
was dashed from his lips. 

Had he never known Morna it is possible that Truagh 
would have developed into a peevish disappointed man. 


TRUAGII KEEPS WATCFE 


95 


He himself knew or faintly felt this ; so the sting of his 
disappointment was less keen than it might otherwise have 
been. He knew now all that the girl had done for him ; 
he thanked God for the glimpses of happiness which she 
had brought to him. 

Although he loved her deeply, madly, although he 
knew that in resigning her he would be resigning every 
hope and happiness he had in life, Truagh felt that he 
would fearlessly resign her, were it to be for her ultimate 
good. 

“ But it is hard, God knows,” he murmured, as he 
passed his hand across his cold wet brow, “ if she loves 
the Frenchman as I think, this is a dark day for me.” 

He looked around the room. It was cheerless enough, 
for the lire was out and the lamp was flickering and grow- 
ing dim for want of oil. I'ruagn lit his pipe again by the 
faint lamp-light, then he ihrcw the owl some more fish, 
pulled down a long mackerel line from the rafters, and, 
approaching the door, quietly let himself out and closed it 
behind him. 

It v/as pitch dark without, for thefe was no moon, but 
Truagh walked fearlessly forward until he reached the 
steps where Morna and Captain Bisson had ascended that 
afternoon after their love scene below. Here close to the 
base of the cliff, Ticurrag/i lay overturned ; this he launched, 
and was soon rowing out to sea. He proceeded about half 
a mile from the shore, then he shipped his oars, took his 
seat in the middle of the boat, and leaning forward with 
his elbows on his knees and his eyes fixed vacantly upon 
the water smoked harder than before. So still did he 
keep that not a muscle of his body moved ; so calm did 
he outwardly appear, and yet with what a storm he was 
contending I He would have been glad to pass out of life * 
thus, had it been possible, to slip over the boat’s side and 
sink to the bottom of the sea ; all before him seemed so 
barren, so utterly desolate. Without Morna, what would 
life become to "him but a dreary, profitless, painful ex- 
istence, to which death would be jn-eferable ? Truagh had 
never before fully realized what the girl had become to 
him ; he realized it now too late. 

But was it too late 1 


96 


THE DARK COLLEEH. 


As the thought flashed through Truagh’s mind, the 
death-like vacant look passed from his eyes, and a light 
illumined his face. After all he was but anticipating 
sorrow. Morna must care for the man now, he knew, 
else she was not the girl to stand clasping his hands and 
kissing his lips ; but after all it might be only a passing 
fancy which would wear awiiy when the Frenchman left the 
island and returned to his native land. The- case was not 
so \'ery bad ; there was still some gleam of hope, and 
despairingly enough Truagh clutched at this as his only 
chance of salvation. If Morna cared for him only a little 
he felt that his life would not be such a weary one after all. 
He would hope until he saw that his last chance was gone, 
his last dream shattered utterly. 

Truagh raised his head again and looked about him. 
The dawn was breaking ; a faint grey light sparkled on 
the sea and on the crags which rose above him shutting 
out the land. He removed the pipe from his mouth, 
knocked it on the curragh's side, scattering the cold grey 
ashes upon the water. Then he lifted his heavily leaded 
line, and drawing it straight through his hands, cast it over 
into the sea. After about a minute he drew it in again, 
hand over hand, and lifted into the boat a mackerel which 
was hooked firmly on the end. This performance he re- 
peated for about an hour, when he had several dozen fish 
lying in the boat, — then he took his oars and pulled rapidly 
to shore. He turned over the boat as he had found it, 
gathered his fish together, wound the mackerel line round 
his hand, and ascended the steps which led up towards his 
home. 

The islanders were all awake now. Here and there 
on the hills thin streams of smoke ascended in long un- 
broken lines towards the sky. The door of his own hut 
stood open ; all his birds — save the owl, which was dozing 
again — were collected and wide awake outside, and Creena 
stood , on the threshold looking troubled and very pale. As 
Truagh approached, the owl opened one eye and gave him 
a sleepy wink, but Creena came forward and asked him 
what wms the matter. 

“The matter said 'fruagh lightly, “what could be 
the matter? I have been casting the mackerel line, that 


THE FEAST HA RICH. " 


97 


is all — and you see I have had luck. The haul may be 
bad to-morrow again, so we may thank the Saints for such 
small mercies as this ! ” 


CHAPTER XV. 


THE FEAST “ NA RICH.” * 



EAST days came seldom on Eagle Island. The mem- 


J- ories of the blessed Saints were not celebrated nor 
was that of the Holy Virgin hei'self ; but on Christmas Eve 
the islanders flocked to the little chapel on the hill to hear 
Father l\Ioy say midnight mass for the Holy Mother and 
her Child. This was all they knew of saints days, and 
this was all they cared to know ; for after all, celebrations 
like these seemed rather dull. Mjn who spent their days 
in fishing and tilling the land longed naturally for some 
more liv- ly recreation, when the time for recreation came. 
So although the islanders b-ut their knees every Christmas 
E.ve at the altar of Our Lady, they willingly forgot the 
existence of lesser luminaiaes, or remembering them, failed 
to do them proper homage. But the feast of the election 
was in no such manner overlooked. At this there was 
dancing, and singing, and playing, and plenty of whiskey 
too. For one day the islanders shook off their cares of 
toil, and their dull eyes grew quite bright, as they listened 
to the sound of mtisic and the pattering of feet upon the 
floor. The young girls, dressed in their best and most of 
them decorated with some new ribbon or ornament brought 
by Barron O’Cloaskey from the mainland, danced with all 
their might and main, and listened to Barron’s music and 
his songs, and sang themselves and flirted — in every possi- 
ble way making up for the dulness of the past year. 

The place where the feast was held was a sort of Cap- 
itol, built especially fur the yearly feast some twenty years 
before, when Dunroon was first made the leader. Truly, 


^ The feast of the king. 

7 


THE DARK COLLEEN. 


98 

it consisted of only one room, but this was of no ordinary 
dimensions, being large enough in fact to accommodate, 
with tolerable comfort, the whole of the inhabitants of 
Eagle Island. During the year it .was appropriated to the 
sole use of the “ King,” and was used by him as a sort of 
granary, or store room, in which to pack his corn and 
shelter his cattle ; but in the beginning of the Feast week 
it was cleared of all its contents, and thrown open to the 
island girls, who forthwith flocked in to decorate it up in 
the most accredited manner, and to make it exhibit its 
brightest Ci le for the night of the feast. 

'Fhe ceremony was always held at Midsummer and on 
a satiu'day night; such had been the case at least since 
Fath'. r Moy had been mrde p^ie^t. The good man's par- 
tiality for whiskey was well known, and it was known too 
that on each Saturday night he dared not drink a drop of 
liquor after midnight. Besides this, on a Saturday the 
islanders alwa 3 ^s felt their minds more at ease, for their 
week’s work was done, and they were free to enjoy to the full 
the gaieties of the hour. 

Towards evening the hills grew quite alive with people, 
who turned out dressed in their best, to do honor to the 
Feast “ 7ia Righ.^’’ 

Judging from the flocks of girls who now descended 
from the mountain solitudes, youth and beauty seemed at a 
a discount on Eagle Island. Even to Captain Bisson, who 
had now dwelt some time amongst them, this was a revela- 
tion. Never before had this enthusiastic partizan of female 
beauty beheld such a cluster of virgin roses gathered to- 
gether as he now saw on the wild outlandish island, where 
they were destined, it seemed, to bloom and die unseen. 
The dark ones seemed to him the finest, and much more 
suggestive of luxuriant abandonment than those fair girls 
with reddish hair, but all were pleasing to his eyes, as he 
watched them hastening over the heather, barefooted most 
of them, and bareheaded, their long hair streaming like 
manes behind them. Yet he who would willingly have 
paid homage to such loveliness was not a little piqued to 
observe that whenever these very beauties encountered 
his smiling gaze, they religiously crossed themselves and 
turned away. Well, after all, he thought, they were but 


THE FEAST HA RICH. 


savages, though there were so mau)^ fair faces amongst 
them. 

The captain’s mind was large and most accommo- 
dating. Had he found himself in some lonely Indian val- 
ley, and at the same time felt assured as to the safety of his 
own fair person, we verily believe he would have cheer- 
fully presided at a cannibal feast or any ritualistic savage 
rite ; so although he felt towards these islanders very much 
as he would have felt towards a primitive tribe, he had no 
possible objection to assisting in their ceremonies. 

On the whole, he would have felt better pleased to have 
had these maidens smiling upon him, instead of turning 
away their heads. 

After all he had Morna left, and she was infinitely the 
most charming of them all. As this thought passed through 
the captain’s brain, he turned his head and looked at her 
critically again. She wore her festal dress. Her skirt 
reached to her ankles, and her legs and feet were clad to-day 
in white stockings and leather shoes. Around her neck 
glittered a necklace of otter’s teeth, to which was at- 
tached an ivory cross. Her hair was drawn from her face 
and fastened at the back with a band of blue ribbon, which 
had been brought over at her special request, by Barron 
O’Cloaskey, and which she now wore whth all the pleasure 
befitting so pretty an ornament. She had left the house 
earlier than usual, in order that Bisson might miss no part 
of the fun, and she had felt quite satisfied when her father 
had said that he would follow^ later on. 

Yet it did not seem so early after all, for as IMorna and 
Bisson joined the throng who w-ere drifting down from the 
heights, dark evening shadows weie already being cast 
about the hills, and when t ley reached the door of the 
feasthouse, the light of the torches flashed into their eyes. 

The attendance w'as always large, but this \ ear it seemed 
unusually so. Although the room seemed well filled 
already, many more people were thronging down from the 
hills. The floor was swept clean ; the w-alls were dec- 
orated w'ith crosses, rudely carved wooden crucifixes, and 
garlands of heather and ivy. In each corner of the room, 
fitted close against the wall, were long torches of tarred 
bogdale and knotted fir, which crackled and blazed, cast- 


lOO 


THE DARK COLLERH. 


ing a bright lurid glare upon the faces of those who were 
collected beneath. An incessant babble of voices issued 
from the door ; above the sound and mingling with it, 
might be heard the melodious strains of the flute and the 
tambourine. 

When Morna and Bisson reached the threshold, they 
paused and looked about them. 

Far away in the ingle sat old Cullen O’Cloaskey, blow- 
ing away at his flute with some dim notion of tune but none 
whatever of time. Near to himstood Barron, strutting like 
a bantam cock, his coat flowing from him like a robe, and 
his small grinning face gleaming crimson with prolonged 
and violent physical exertion, as he went through various 
antics with his tambourine. In another corner sat the 
island piper, beaming with delight in all the pride of new 
ribbons to his pipes, and plenty of wind to fill them ; 
while' near to his side crouched Doctor Tuam, peering about 
him like any weasel, his towsy hair brushed smooth, and 
his face washed clean. 

The company consisted of nearly every able-bodied in- 
habitant of Eagle Island. Old, young, short, tall ; comely 
and plain, fair and dark. 

As he looked around him, Bisson thought that he had 
never before beheld such a motlv crowd : — the grim, grisly 
fishermen, the young “boys” from twenty to thirty, the 
pretty girls, and the cauliaghs^' in the background. When 
Morna appeared on the lhreshold,*she received many Irish 
greetings, and Barron O’Cloaskey turned towards her, 
struck a fantastic attitude, and beat harder than ever at his 
tambourine. 

Begorracha ! ’tis the caed that’s here before 

you, 7nachree, for not a foot ’ll they stir until they seen a 
sight o’ your face. Just look at his rev’rence’s self,” he 
continued, as Father Moy came waltzing up to her side, 
“ devil a word would he give to a poor boy, but he was 
always clasping his bottle, and now, by the Saints he’s ready 
to dance himself.” 

Barron spoke truth, for the Priest no sooner reached 
Morna’s side, than he took her hand, and the two went 
twirling round and round upon the floor, in preparation for 
a reel, to the imminent peril of themselves and the com- 


THE EE AST NA RICH. 


lOI 


pany present. For whenever Father Moy attempted to 
dance, his legs lost their firmness, and became like two 
strips of limp rag loaded at the end with lead, dangling 
about his partner’s ankles and dealing wholesale kicks upon 
those who happened to be near. The consequence was 
that in his festive moments he was universally avoided, and 
what when the dance began was only a narrow path soon 
widened into a ring large enough for a dozen couples to 
dance in, for the company crowed together into all the 
corners of the room in their frantic endeavors to avoid the 
antics of Father Moy. 

The priest’s hilarity set the company going, and soon 
the atmosphere of the room was full of floating petticoats, 
legs, and arms ; the tambourine, the flute, and the pipes, 
each pursuing its different tune, and trying which could 
scream loudest, played conscientiously with a charming 
disregard of harmony. Presently, to Morna’s infinite re- 
lief, the priest paused, whipped out an elaborately embroid- 
ered silk handkerchief, mopped his steaming face ; and 
feeling doubtless that he had royally performed his duty, 
bowed profoundly to Morna and disappeared as suddenly 
as he had appeared. Lifting her hand, Morna unbound 
the scarf which concealed her black braided hair and cast 
it aside. As she stood thus, she saw a white face, smiling 
sadly, at the farthest corner of the room, and making her 
wav towards it, she was soon seated by the side of Truagh 
O’More. 

Truagh always attended the feasts, though he would 
take no part in the fun. Formerly it had been pleasure 
enough for him to watch Morna dance or hear her sing, 
but now it all seemed altered, and as he sat there in the 
shade, it was gall and wormwood to him to note the throng 
of people partaking of enjoyments which he could not 
share. He did not wish them for himself, he had never 
coveted them before ; but now he began to think that had 
he been like any one of those people, he might have become 
more to Morna. 

She did not linger long by his side, but was soon out on 
the dancing floor dancing again. When next she paused 
she went to Captain Bisson, for he w'as a stranger there, 
and he was staying at her father’.s house. Morna had no- , 


102 


THE DARK COLLEEN. 


ticed, too, how at sight of him, these island girls had turned 
away and crossed themselves, and she thought more 
seriously of this than did Bisson himself. 

But this was not a night for apprehension or uneasiness^ 
and she was soon again carried away by the whirl of excite- 
ment and fun which was going on around her. 

Sports and pastimes were followed up with a will, 
dancing was continued, girls were courted, matches were 
made, and even mock marriages performed, until the 
midnight hour approached. 

Presently there came a lull in the amusements. Girls, 
wearied with long dancing sat about on the floor, vigorous- 
ly fanning their flushed faces, while the men gathered 
together in groups and gradually became engaged in earn- 
est conversation. The whiskey was circulated freely, 
glasses jingled, toasts were drunk, and the monotonous 
hum. of conversation began. Altogether things were be- 
coming very slow, when Barron O’Cloaskey, who for some 
time had stood disconsolately upon the hearth, suddenly 
called for the priest. 

No one had seen his reverence since he had left 
Morna’s side, none knew whether he was in the house or 
out of it — until Father Moy suddenly rising up from the 
midst of a circle of children, stepped forward into the mid- 
dle of the room. 

“ More power to your rev’rence ! ” exclaimed Barron 
O’Cloaskey, suddenly executing a flourish on his tambour- 
ine, “ and God send you the good health. Would’nt it be 
obliging that you were if you were to please a poor boy so 
far, and the company present, as to sing them a bit of an 
old song. ” 

‘‘ Devil a word ! ” exclaimed Father Moy vehemently, 
“ devil a word is it that you’ll get from Father Moy to- 
night. ’Tis Saturday night Mr. Barron, Sir, and though 
’tis a good enough night in its way, and well suited to the 
habits of the laity, ’tis well known that a priest of God 
must never take a drop after ?nidnight. 

And having in these words delicately conveyed his 
intention of imbibing as much as possible until the twelfth 
hour, he turned his broad back upon the company and 
was about to depart. 


THE FEAST “HA RJGH. ” 


^03 

But Barron was not to be denied so easily. 

“ Och yer revn*ence ! ” he said, “ ’tis not this way you’d 
wish to be traiting your people, and that after staying 
away three whole months besides. Don’t we all know 
that you’ve a voice like the nightingale or the thrush, so 
soft and soothin’, and as for the drinking, why your 
rev’rei),-j, sure you needn’t think about it at all, at all, for 
you’ll have plentv of time and to spare before midnight 
itself ! ” 

leather Moy looked with a knowing wink into Barron’s 
face, then his fat hand emerged from his sleeve, made a 
dive int3 his trousers pocket, and drew forth an enormous 
silver watch, which must certainly have been an heirloom, 
and which in size and shape might have been modelled 
from Father Moy’s head. When after considerable man- 
ceuvering, he had got it comfortably lying on its back in 
the palm of his hand, he gazed at it critically, with head 
on one side and one eye closed. Suddenly, however, the 
eye opened and as suddenly the priest turned upon 
Barron. 

“ Stopped — by the powers ! ” he exclaimed. 

Yes sure, your rev’rence,” said Barron with a calm 
smile, ‘‘ but ’tis little matter. What are them turnspinners 
invented for but to make a man’s life topsy turvy, and to 
upset his works besides. Now there’s that old cock of 
Dunroon's perched up yonder, that’ll serve you a hundred 
times better than the likes o’ that, for he spars at eleven 
of the clock, and he crows sure enough at twelve ! Now 
if your rev’rence would but sing us a small song to cheer 
our hearts, I’ll keep an eye on the cock, and warn you 
well before he crows.” 

The priest looked at Barron and smiled. In truth he 
was rather proud of his singing, and he was not at all 
sorry when Barron pressed the request so heartily. After 
once more glancing pathetically at his watch, he gradually 
let it slide again into his trousers pocket ; then taking his 
stand in the middle of the room, squaring his shoulders, 
gazing fiercely before him, spreading out the palm of his 
left hand, and beating the time with his right fat fore- 
finger, he began an Irish song of which the following is 
the familiar English version. 


104 the dark COLLEEH. 

“ When Saint Patrick our order created, 

And called us the Monks of the Screw, 

Good rules he revealed to our abbot. 

To guide us in what we should do. 

“ But first he replenished his fountain 
With liquor the best in the sky; 

And he swore by the word of his saintship, 

That fountain should never run dry ! 

“My children, be chaste when you’re tempted ; 

While sober, be wise and discreet ; 

And humble your bodies with fasting, 

Whene’er you have nothing to eat. 

“Then be not a glass in the convent, 

Except on a festival found. 

And that rule to enforce, I ordain it, 

A festival all the year round.” 

Sung as the song was, with a broad Irish twang, a 
gasping voice, and comical turns of the head, the effect 
was ludicrous in the extreme ; but Father Moy’s flock, 
crowding around him, applauded at every pause with the 
utmost servility, and when he ceased the dwelling echoed 
with the rounds of cheering. Father Moy was too fond 
of spiritual comfort to be caught by hollow applause. 
Scarcely had he gabbled through the last words of the 
song, when he exclaimed. ‘‘ That’ll do you now ! ” made 
a dive amidst his flock, and scattered them right and left. 
Having reached the table, he seized the bottle which had 
been newly placed for him, poured out one glass after an- 
other, and made them disappear with incredible swiftness, 
while Barron O’Cloaskey watched him from afar with a 
strange mischievous twinkle in his eyes. 

The priest had despatched two tumblers with some 
comfort, and he was preparing a third with all the care of 
a connoisseur. He had poured in the water and added 
the whiskey ; his mouth was watering, his eyes gleaming 
with anticipated pleasure. He lifted the glass, looked at 
by the light and half raised it to his lips. 

Suddenly there was a cry. 

“ Hold, your rev’rence, the time is up ! The cock has 
lifted his wing and is going to crow ! ” 


FATHER MOY ASSERTS HIS AUTHORITY. 105 

The priest paused, glass in hand. He looked at the 
cock ; its wings were raised. Unwilling to lose his care- 
fully prepared bofine boitche^ yet unable, with a clear con- 
science, to take it, the priest stood hesitating. 

The next moment his face brightened. 

Quick as thought he set the tumbler down, leapt up at 
the awakening cock, seized him from his perch and tucked 
him securely under his arm ! Then, still holding him firm- 
ly, he lifted his tumbler, drank off the contents, seized an- 
other and did likewise — and havir.g completed this master 
stroke of cunning, took the unfortunate cock from his pris- 
on, and threw him back to his perch with a benediction ! 

“There my friend 1 Crow yourself to the devil if you 
wish, and my blessing go with you ! ” 

The company roared and clapped their hands, the cock 
stretched out his neck, opened his wings and crowded aloud, 
and Father Moy, wafting his silk handkerchief about his 
nose, stood like a performer bowing his acknowledgments 
to an excited and admiring crowd. 


CHAPTER XVL 

FATHER MOY ASSERTS HIS AUTHORITY. 

A t midnight the formal ceremony commenced. 

Scarcely had Father Moy performed his feat of 
cunning, when twelve of the men disappeared from the 
room, and the remaining men, women and girls arranged 
themselves in silent groups about the floor. A table was 
placed in the middle of the room, around it were twelve 
stools, and a thirteenth, which stood at the head of the 
table, showed from its white linen covering that it was the 
stool of the “ King.” Behind this stool the island piper 
stood ready for a glorious blow. Morna Dunroon ap- 
proached the table and placed in the centre a basket of 
plaited reeds, and as she did so, the piper’s left arm came 
down with a bang upon his pipes, old Cullen’s flute shrieked 
out an ancient tune, and Barron began beating wildly on 
his tambourine. 


THE DARK COLLEEN. 


fo6 


Almost simultaneously the door of the room opened, 
and Dunroon entered ; with him, following close on his 
heels, were twelve fishermen. Silently this party ap- 
proached the table, Dunroon threw his hat upon the white- 
covered stool, while the twelve men, who had entered with 
him, took their seats around the board. At this, Dunroon 
raised his brows in amazement, for hitherto the custom 
had been for them to present the King with the white 
cross which lay concealed beneath the lid of the reed 
basket, ere they took their seats. But now the proceed- 
ings seemed changed, and, removing his hat from the stool, 
Dunrooa was about to follow the general example, when 
his opposite neighbor, who, since his entrance into the 
room had evidently had much ado to restrain his excite- 
ment, rose to his feet, his face quite purple with passion, 
and squeaked out. 

“ By the Holy Virgin and all the saints above, and 
may the devil receive my soul, Broghan Dunroon, if ’tis 
permitted you are again to sit in that same chair ! ” 

And having delivered this warning, he looked furious 
as any fighting-cock and paused for a reply. 

Dunrooii turned, and, still standing, calmly surveyed 
his foe. He seemed no very formidable antagonist, but 
the probability was that his brain was large enough to 
cover the deficiencies of his body. He was scarcely five 
feet high, his hair was of a sickly yellow', and from beneath 
a large full forehead looked out a pair of small red eyes. 
On ordinary occasions his voice had a somewdiat feminine 
sound, but w'hen its owner was in any way excited, it rose 
into a clear shrill shriek. This little man it was, among 
others, who had been so zealous in wishing to cast Captain 
Bisson down to the fishes. 

Dunroon surveyed him from head to foot, and as he 
did so, his heavy features contracted into a smile of in- 
tense contempt. 

This mighty limbed fisherman had ever a scorn for 
weak manhood, and the little man, wdth his feeble phys- 
ique and squeaky voice, w'as peculiarly repulsive in his 
eyes. Perhaps Manus Dunmore knew this, which would 
account for his extraordinary readiness and frantic eager- 
ness to act as spokesman on the present occasion. Almost 


FA THER MO V ASSER TS HIS A UTHORITY. j o 7 

involuntarily Dunroon glanced at the men ; then he turned 
again to Dunmore. 

“ And who will prevent me sitting down there if I 
please, Manus Dunmore ? ” he said. 

The man’s red face became redder still, and his eyes 
grew quite luminous as he glared into Dunroon’s calm 
countenance, 

“ Who will prevent you, Broghan Dunroon, is that it } 
I will prevent you, by all the Saints, I will ! ” he cried. 
“ Is it to please you, and the likes of you, that we will 
suffer famine and death and desolation, and bring bad 
times to the land t Wasn’t it a prosperous land and 
always growing better since the reign of our forefathers, 
and was this year itself worse than another, till you came 
with your drowned strangers and the like, and blasted our 
prosperity and our prospects of good luck. Wasn’t it 
good fishing we were getting and not empty nets, and 
wasn’t it fruitful that the harvest promised to be ; and 
what is it now but scarcity of fish, blighted corn-ears, and 
withered potatoe bines ? Look at them three fields of 
my own, sown with good potatoes, ‘ Protestants ’ every 
one, and their like not to be found in Eagle, and are not 
the bines withering and the potatoes rotting, and the Lord 
knows how it will end. Do you think we’re the men to 
stand sheer ruin like this, Broghan Dunroon } Saints and 
angels, no ; not while we’ve got voices to speak of it, and 
hands to stop it in good time. You’ll just stand where you 
are, Dunroon, and never sit in that same chair till you’ve 
shown good cause so to do.” 

Having finished his oration, Dunmore mopped his pur- 
ple brow, panted for a few seconds like an exhausted dog, 
and resumed his ^eat. 

There was a marked difference in the room. 

The whole of the company who had crouched around 
on their haunches, now rose to their feet, and pressed for- 
ward and watched eagerly. The piper had ceased his 
strain, and stood with his limp instrument hanging over 
his arm. Barron O’Cloaskey was nervously twirling his 
tambourine, while old Cullen sat forward with his elbows 
resting upon his knees, his fiute hanging between them, 
and his antique brain vainly endeavoring to fathom the 


io8 


THE CEE AG iVA LUING. 


true state of affairs. Father Moy stood near the table with 
his dark eyes fixed pathetically upon a bottle, or what ap- 
peared to be one, in the distance, and by his side, crouched 
Doctor Tuam, peering about like an intelligent monkey 
and making various grimaces whenever he caught Dun- 
more’s gaze. Captain Bisson stood regarding the company 
at the table with that smile of supreme self-satisfaction 
which looked so well on his face. It seemed to him, who 
understood nothing of this speech, that the fun . of the 
evening was at last commencing, and his blue eyes sparkled 
with light and vivacity. 

These islanders being a peculiar people, he thought, 
were perhaps worth a little of his consideration, and so he 
determined to study their strange uncivilized manners and 
customs. But when he turned round and saw Alorna, the 
expression of his face became slightly altered ; his sparkling 
blue eyes lost some of their light, and his right hand trembled 
slightly. She stood a little before him, but she did not seem 
to heed his presence, nor indeed any presence except that 
of her father. Her cheeks had grown quite white, and in her 
eyes there was a wild troubled look which Bisson had never 
before seen there. Dunroon did not notice Morn a : he 
was too much occupied with the business he had in hand. 

This catastrophe came to him by no means unexpect- 
edly. For some time he had observed the sullen looks of 
the men ; he knew that the fishing had been bad, that the 
crops had become blighted, and he was unable to explain 
the cause. Superstitious like the rest, he mentally attribu- 
ted all this to the rescue of Captain Bisson, but he was too 
great a humanitarian, or too pugnacious perhaps, to an- 
nounce the fact. He had been brought to save this man’s 
life, without foreseeing the painful consequences of his good 
deed ; for the renunciation of his position was a serious 
matter to him, and it was hardly to be expected that a 
man of his calibre would willingly have risked so much 
merely for the sake of a mere stranger. But having saved 
him, Dunroon determined to remain true to his trust, and 
by no means exhibit to his companions a cowardly mind. 
Such an aspect would not have Ireen natural to him, and 
it would effectually have lost for him the goodwill of the 
fishermen. While Dunmore was speaking he remained 


FA THER MO Y ASSER TS HIS A UTHORITY. 1 09 

silent, glancing at him with a scarcely perceptible sneer ; 
when he had finished and resumed his seat, he looked 
scrutinizingly at the faces around the table. 

“ Well, boys,” he said, “ speak out your minds, and I’ll 
do your bidding. Is it to dethrone me you want after my 
being your King for these twenty years ” 

The men nodded a grim assent. 

“ And for what is it that you wish to do it?” continu 
Dunroon. “ Because I kept you from sinning against 
Almighty God and the saints of heaven ; because I kept 
your hands from murder — yes, murder itself, for what else 
is it when you cast a living man to the bottom of the 
sea ? ” 

“The say?” cried Doctor Tuam, suddenly rising up 
in an ecstatic manner. “ Sure then ’twas the sayweed and 
nothing better, since he broke the charm I ” 

The men glanced at the Doctor with no very amiable 
expressions, then one rose and addressed Dunroon. 

“We mean to change our leader this 3^ear,” he said. 
“You have brought us bad fishing, and a bad harvest, 
and you have turned our cattle sick, and this is not what 
a leader should do — and ’tis not what he will be allowed 
to do on Eagle Island. What is it to us if you have ruled 
us for twenty years, aye, or forty years, if ’tis bad luck that 
you mean to bring us in the end ? We want a better man, 
and we will have him. You’re getting old, Dunroon, and 
we mean to have a younger man. Isn’t that the way of 
it?” he asked, glancing around at his companions; and 
the company rising en masse, loudly exclaimed, 

“ It is ! it is ! ” 

“ Then, by the saints, I deny it, and the devil take him 
that contradicts me!'' cried a voice, and the men, turning 
their heads, beheld the indignant countenance of Father 
Moy. 

His black eyes were flashing with anger, his shoulders 
squared, and as a sign of the intensity of his emotion, his 
little fat hands were running in and out of his sleeves con- 
tinually. He threw back his head, and looked the men 
steadily in the face. 

“ By the memory of the blessed saints,” he cried, “’tis 
a pretty set you are, and one that Father Moy might well 


I 10 


THE DARK COLLEEN. 


be ashamed to drive before him into the gates of Heaven. 
Hasn’t Dunroon there served your turn as well as any 
man could ? Hasn’t he settled every dispute as a man 
should, and promoted peace in the land? Doesn’t he keep 
the best crop in the island — aye, I can swear to that — and 
the sweetest drop of potheen, too ; and yet you can turn 
upon such a man without rhyme or reason. For shame, 
you houchals you ; down on your marrow-bones every man 
of you and ask his pardon, or you’ll call on your backs the 
weight of Father Moy"s stick, not to speak of the curse of 
Heaven itself.” 

Simultaneously the men turned their eyes upon the 
priest, and their dark faces grew more troubled. 

Much as they feared the curse of heaven, they were in 
still greater dread of that corporal punishment which they 
knew that Father Moy, on occasion, was not slow to ad- 
minister. But their case was now too strong for them to 
yield even to holy authority. They determined to carry 
out their intentions, even at the expense of defying the 
priest ; for what could be worse, they reflected, than to 
have a famine in the land, and see their families pine for 
lack of food. This had come once to Eagle Island, and 
they determined it should not come again ; so although 
they listened patiently to the priest’s speech, and remained 
silent for a few moments after he had finished, their 
features did not relax a muscle, but they looked at him 
in grim silence and determination. At length one spoke. 

“ Sure your rev’rence knows naught of the matter at 
all, begging your rev’rence’s pardon. Isn’t it we that have 
to pay your fees and give you the corn, and how can we 
do that same if a famine comes to the land, and the crops 
wither, and the population die ? Sure it would be little 
good calling out after that had come. What was it he 
swore when he was made the King ? To look to the 
prosperity of the land, and the people, and God’s priest. 
He has broken them laws every one, and we swear before 
your rev’rence that we will put him down because of 
that ! ” 

Despite the fact that a good pint of whiskey was com- 
fortably concealed in the priest’s portly stomach, his wits 
remained clear enough, and his sharp eyes at once per- 


FA THKR MO Y ASSER TS Ills A UTHORITY. 1 1 1 

ceived the true state of affairs. He saw that to enforce 
his power would be unwise, perhaps dangerous, and Father 
Moy was acute enough to know that if once his divine 
authority began to be questioned, it might be a difficult 
matter to bring these people again under his sway. He 
had not visited Eagle Island for over twenty years, and 
learnt nothing. Vigorously quelling the inclination which 
he always had to wave his stick and lay it about the backs 
of his insubordinate flock, he merely squared his shoulders, 
threw back his head, placed the fat fore-finger into the 
palm of his left hand as if he were about to deliver a 
speech, screwed up his eyes, and looked half pathetically, 
half comically, right over the heads of the men. 

“Now, boys,’’ he said, “ listen to reason. Haven’t I 
been your priest for more than twenty years, and don’t I 
know that you’re a set of poor benighted wretches, as 
ignorant as the brute beast that crawls on its belly on God’s 
earth ? ” 

He paused as if expecting an assent, but the men were 
silent. They might listen quietly to the priest’s phillipic, 
but they were hardly likely to indorse his opinion of them, 
such as it was. So the priest continued. 

“ You are a lot of poor benighted creatures, I say, and 
you speak as no savage would speak, believe me. What is 
all this about water spirits ? Is it like Christian men to 
talk so when you’ve the Holy Virgin and the saints to 
jDrotect you, and bring you luck ? If you think this gen- 
tleman,” jerking his thumb towards Captain Bisson, ‘‘ has 
brought you misfortune, you are wrong, for he is a fine man, 
every inch of him. The ill luck that has come to the land, 
you have brought on yourselves, and I’ll tell you how. 
Didn’t you confess to me, Manus Dunmore,” asked Father 
Moy, suddenly fixing his eye upon the little man’s shrinking 
form, “ and didn’t I shrive you when you were sick, begod 
I did ! but devil the halfpenny did I get for it when you 
were well ! And that sheaf of oats of yours, Anthony 
O’Connor,” he added, turning to another, “ devil a grain 
was there in it at all, as much as would fill the stomach of 
an old hen ! ’Tis these things that bring the bad luck — 
make good your debts to me., and pray to the saints, and 
the land will be prosperous enough in the end ! ” 


Ill 


THE DA EH COLL EE A'. 


The men hung their heads, partly in shame, partly in 
anger ; but they vehemently reiterated their intention of 
taking another King. Father Moy waved his stick, and 
brought it down heavily upon the board. 

“ Would it please you then,” he asked in desperation, 
“if the stranger was sent away? ” 

The men were silent. After all they had a lingering 
wish to retain Dunroon as their leader, for they could not 
conceal from themselves the fact that since he had been 
promoted to that position, there had been peace and good- 
will on Eagle Island, and he had unconsciously won their 
respect. So they looked at each other when the priest 
spoke the words, and they seemed to divine each other’s 
thoughts and wishes, for after this silent communication, 
the man who was nearest the priest spoke for the whole. 

“ If he took the bad luck with him we would be content,” 
he said. 

As Morna heard these words her face grew whiter still, 
her heart beat hard against her side and she fixed her eyes 
upon her father’s face. Dunroon had been silently watching 
the priest and the men. When they ceased speaking, he 
cried with a great oath, 

''Mona man dioul^ the Frenchman shall stay in my 
house as long as he pleases ! ” 

The priest started as if he had been shot \ the men half . 
rose from their seats, Morna drew a deep breath of relief. 

Father Moy approached Dunroon’s side. 

“ Is it mad you are ? ” he asked. 

“ No, your reverence,” replied Dunroon in his heavy 
voice, “ and forby that I’m not a man that can be brought 
to act against his own conscience in the sight of God.” 
Then turning to the men he continued : “ If you are cowards 
’tis no reason why I should be one too ; if you think fit to 
take away a man’s life or to turn a stranger from your 
hearth, ’tis no reason why I should do that same. The 
Frenchman was taken to my house, and ’tis there he’ll stay 
so long as he pleases, in spite of you anymore.^’ 

Dunroon’s voice was very hard and determined. The 
men stared at him in mute amazement, 'khey had not 
expected this, and it must be confessed that the man’s 
pugnacity raised him considerably in their esteem. 


FA TUFF AW F ASSFF TS HIS A (77 I/O KIT V. 


113 

Doctor Tuam raised his body higher than ever he had 
been know to do before, and peered into Du m oon’s face. 

“'Twasthe sayweed that saved him, worse luck to it,” 
he said, “but Sainted Mary, if I had known of all this, ’tis 
little help that he would have got from me 

“ You mane to go against us, Dunroon > ” asked one of 
the men. “ You mane to keep that stranger on the land 1 ’’ 

Dunroon set his teeth firmly. 

“ I mane to do just what I have said.” 

This was conclusive indeed. Father Moy saw clearly 
enough that further parley would be useless ; the men 
turned scowling away, and Owen Dennis, a wildlooking 
fisherman, lifted the reed basket which Morna had placed 
on the table, and which contained a small white ivory 
cross, bought by Morna herself. She had saved in order 
to obtain this gift for her father’s adornment, and now it 
was to be given over to another man. Morna felt prouder 
of her father than she had ever done before. She thought he 
had acted well. She was grateful to him for shielding 
Captain Bisson, and she would have given her right hand 
to prevent his dethronement had that been possible. And 
was it not possible ? 

Yes, there was one other way she knew, one which 
might be tried since all others had failed. Morna hesi- 
tated only for a moment, then she stood among the men at 
the table, grasping the white cross in her hand. 

“ 'fhis is my father’s ! ” she said, quietly. 

All the men turned and looked at her. They did not 
speak, but their eyes glared, and some of their mouths 
murmured in sheer amazement. Women were accustomed 
to be seen and not heard in Plagle Island. No other 
\voman in the room would have dared to confront those 
fishermen as she did now, but then Morna had been train- 
ed differently to those others. She had been taught to 
love her father and not fear him, and to dread no one. 
She looked straight into their faces and quietly continued. 

“ You must not punish my father, since he is not to 
blame. He has never done you any harm. You know 
yourselves that 1 am the cause of this, and ’tis but right 
that 1 should bear the ill.” 

No one spoke ; so she continued. 


THE DARK COLLEEN. 


I14 


’ “ If you take another king it will not help you, for it 
will not turn from you the wrath of the Midian Mara, and 
bring prosperity to the land. Sure there is only one way. 
If you will promise to give this willingly to my father, I 
will promise, I will swear to you before God, and the 
Virgin, and all the saints, to do what no living woman on 
Eagle Island ever did before — to dive down to the Isle na 
Rhuinish at the full of the moon, and at the full of the 
tide, and bring up to you the water flower that the Priest 
may bless it and sow it in holy ground. The Midian Mara 
and the Elves will then work us no ill ; but the Ashing will 
be good, the soil will be fruitful, and all will be as it has 
been before.” 

The men stared still in silence ; the girls and women 
grew quite pale, crossed themselves and turned away. 
This proposition appalled them ; the very mention of the 
island in such a manner was as bad to them as the men- 
tion of the bottomless pit. 

Morna looked around with a quick questioning glance, 
then, seeing that all still remained silent, asked again, 

“ Will you not answer me t Will you do as I wish .? ” 

Willingly indeed would they have consented to the 
girl’s proposal, for these superstitious men, believing what 
they did, saw here their only chance of rescue. But 
Morna was generally liked amongst them, and as she stood 
there in her father’s defence they felt a great pity for her. 
Two feelings now struggled at their hearts — superstition 
and affection. They sat for a time in silence ; ere they 
could speak Dunroon laid his broad hand upon the girl’s 
shoulder. 

“ Hold your peace, Morna,” he said, “you shall never 
do that. Dive down to the Isle na Rhuinish ! As well 
dive down into the mouth of Hell ! ” 

Morna took her father’s hand. 

“ Do not say that,” she said, in a soft trembling voice. 
“Sure I know right well what lam doing. I feel that 
those sea-spirits will not harm me, but I shall return to you 
and bring back the flower. Say that you will let me go, 
father, and then all will be well with us anymore.” 

Then with a half sigh she turned away and spoke t« 
the priest. 


“ IIEJGH no, no IV J DO LO VE THEE / ” 1 1 c; 

“ Maybe your reverence will help me ? ” she said. 

Father Moy had been watching the scene with some 
interest. When Morna suddenly appealed to him, he 
threw back his head and smiled. 

Help you, by the saints I will ! Sure his the right 
thing to do entirel}’" ! he exclaimed, with a sarcastic ring 
in his voice. “What harm can the water-spirits work you 
when you have my blessing and the blessing of God? 
Dunroon, not a word shall you say to cross the child. Sure 
his a grand swimmer she is, and she’ll do the thing right 
well.” 

As the priest paused, Morna turned again to the 
men. 

“ Give this to my father,” she said, holding forth the 
cross, “ and I will promise to go down to the island in the 
sea.” 

Conscientiously the men put before the girl the peril of 
her undertaking ; they tried to dissuade her, but in vain. 
She it was who had done the wrong, she said, and she 
would set things right. Dunroon, with his usual tenacity, 
strenuously opposed her wishes, until Morna began almost 
to despair ; but at length his resolution was overcome, and 
Morna had the satisfaction of seeing him stand and receiv^e 
his honors as of old. 

Then, and not till then, she raised her right hand, and 
looking into that sea of superstitious faces which gathered 
around her, she swore by the Virgin and all the saints to 
keep her promise faithfully and truly, as she had sworn. 


CHAPTER XVH. 

“ HEIGH HO, HOW I DO LOVE THEE ! ” 

I N winter there is good pasturage on Eagle Island. The 
grass is long, green, and very succulent, and the heather 
has exchanged its bright green and purple hue for the dark 
brown winter tinge, the streams come rolling down the 
craggy mountain sides, and the torrents gush forth from 
the rocky summits of the hills, tumbling down as cataracts 


ii6 


THE DARK COLLEEH. 


upon the green basins far beneath. Then there is good 
food for cattle, and their sleek sides fill out, and their 
coats grow silken and very bright. 

But in summer time, after long drought, the mountain 
streams dry up, the grass begins to wither and grow white, 
and the land becomes parched and hard. Then it is that 
tlie cattle are collected together in large droves, and driven 
up beyond the heights, where the ground is moist and the 
pasturage is good. Troops of island girls gather their 
chattels and depart to their mountain hiding-places, where 
they dwell as unseen as the Norwegian shepherdesses on 
the lonely saeters. Never again, for weeks to come, are 
their faces seen or their voices heard down yonder on the 
lonely sea-shore : but the fishermen go out daily to the 
fishing, and the old wives cluster about the cabin doors, 
and the island seems quite deserted and very silent save 
for the chattering of the seabirds, and the v^eary washing 
of the sea. 

It is dull work for those left behind. The summer 
days are long and dreary at best, and the merry laughing 
girls are wanted even more than in the winter season, when 
the darkness comes on quickly, when doors are bolted, 
fires made up, and stories told in the ingle. 

The prosperity of Eagle Island is worked for by all. 
Labor is an inexorable necessity to which all must suc- 
cumb. So the father must deliver up his child, the lover 
his mistress, and not till the period of self-enforced banish- 
ment is over does he again behold her face. Along the 
paths that lead up yonder to those solitary mountain heights 
men seldom tread. While the nymphs keep possession, 
the place is held sacred to them. 

In this respect. Captain Bisson fared no better than 
his neighbors. 

For many years now it had been Morna’s custom- 
leaving her father to attend to his fishing and otherwise drag 
out his solitary existence — to join the gathering, and dwell 
with the girls for a time upon the lonely hills. As it had 
been in former years, so it was this year when Dunroon 
was dethroned. 

On the day after the Feast, cattle horns were blown and 
bells rang merrily, as the dogs were sent scampering over 


HEIGH HO, HOW I DO LOVE THEE xiy 

the island collecting the cattle jDreparatory to driving them 
over the hills ; and on the evening of that day, Morna put 
both her hands into the soft palms cf Captain Bisson, and 
looking into his sparkling blue eyes, told him of the prom- 
ise she had made to the people and of her enforced ban- 
ishment. 

It wanted three weeks to the full of the moon, and those 
three weeks were to be spent by Morna on the solitary 
island heights. 

As he listened to her words, Bisson’s face undenvent 
a peculiar change. First he smiled, then he grew grave, 
then he smiled again. Disengaging both his hands, he 
put them around her waist and drew her to him; his soft 
silken mustache fluttered on her forehead, on her cheek, 
and finally on her lips. Morna freed herself and stepped 
back ; but Bisson approached and took her hands again. 

Morna! ” he murmured, in that soft cooing voice of 
his, “ what will have happen to me if you promise not to do 
this thing — to dive down to this Meedian Vara of thine?” 

“ Maybe they would have banished you from Eagle 
Island altogether, and sent you back to France ! ” 

Bisson looked relieved ; he smiled supremely upon her, 
and began stroking his mustache. 

“ And that is all, Morna ? ” 

“ All ? ” repeated the girl, looking wonderingly into his 
face, “and would it not be enough? ” ^ 

Parbleu! one would think it might be worse. If this 
thing fail, what then ? ” 

“ It will not fail I ” said Morna, decidedly. 

“ Non ? ma foi, but it might. You believe in these things, 
these Meedian Vara, as you name them ? ” 

“ Yes, indeed, — why wouldn’t I ?” 

“ Because they exist not, my child ; M^sieur le cure will 
tell you so ! ” 

Morna opened her mouth to contradict this statement, 
but suddenly remembering the heresy which Father Moy 
had uttered at the Feast, she closed her lips again and wise- 
ly refrained. To deny the existence of the water-spirits, was 
to Morna like denying the existence of the saints. 

“ Over yonder in France,” Bisson continued, with a 
majestic wave of his right hand, “we have no superstition. 


THE DARK COL LEEK. 


I tS 

Talk to people of the fairies and the elves and they will 
laugh, positifely laugh, and think you pent-Hre.'' 

Morna’s face became clouded. 

“ And you believe with them ? ” she asked. 

Bisson spread out his white hands, and faintly shrugged 
his shoulders. 

Assureme/ifs, my Morna, — what else will you have me 
to do .? ” 

Morna did not reply. She would have wished, had she 
had her will, the captain to share her convictions one and 
all, for day after day she discovered something upon which 
they differed. To be sure he had seen more than she ; he had 
wider experience and broader ideas on most things. Per- 
haps he knew best and was right ; it might be so ; yet try 
as she would, she could not shake off her old beliefs and 
think with him. Not wishing to enter into this now, she 
looked up in to his face, and said, 

“ We must say good-by to-night ; to-morrow I shall be 
away.’’ 

“ Where, ma chere ? ” 

“ At Lough Creelish up yonder on the mountains. 
After three weeks I shall be back again.” 

“ ’Three weeks ! ” Bisson’s heart sank. Three weeks 
without Morna, when she it was who kept him on Eagle 
Island. But for her he might have Ipeen back in France, 
where he ought to have been long before. For Bisson did 
not deceive himself in this matter ; he did not try to quiet 
his own conscience qualms by pretending that illness had 
kept him there ; he knew, and boldly avowed to himself, 
that it was love — or fascination — for Morna Dunroon. So 
the thought of losing her, even for so short a time, was 
any thing but pleasant to him. 

‘‘My Morna!” he said softly, looking down tenderly 
into her upturned face, “ it will be tristc., dreadful, here 
without you — what shall I do ? ” 

Morna smiled, and as she turned her face to his, the 
soft silver twilight fell upon her features and illuminated 
them. Bisson drew her more gently to him. 

“ You are to me, Morna, what the sun is to the earth, 
and the moon is to the sea. Atone time you seem to me 
like one of those little twinkling stars up there, but now 


HEIGH HO, HOW / DO LOVE THEE! 


IIQ 


you are more than that, for your life becomes a part of my 
life ; you give me life, light, and warmth. I live for you, 
I love you — mon Dieii, how I love you ! without you I shall 
die ! ” 

Morna still remained silent, but she quivered through 
and through. It was very pleasant for her to stand and 
listen to this — even the dreamy cooing of the foreign voice 
was music to her. This kind of sentiment was new to Mor- 
na — it almost intoxicated her. Love speeches are always 
delicious, and when they are uttered softly in the twilight, 
they seem to become fraught with double the ordinary 
power. Did Bisson know this, that he always contrived to 
utter such words at night, or was it that the evening shad- 
ows had a strange power in awakening his sentimental emo- 
tions ? As he ceased, his breath came warm against her 
cheek. 

“ Morna, ange^"' he said, “tell me, do you love me 
like^//^/?” 

Morna glanced hurriedly around. 

“ Hush ! some one will come, my father is in the house 
there ; he may hear you.” 

Bisson loolced around this time, then he turned to her 
again. 

“ No one is near, you will speak to me freely. Say, 
Morna, do you love me ? would you do much for love of 
me } ” 

Morna looked up into his face : 

“ I do love you,” she said simply, 

A/i, mon Dieu\ but in what way.?” Bisson replied, 
coming still nearer, and bending close down to her. 
“ There are many ways of loving Morna. Some women say 
they love, but they will sacrifice nothing, they will not even 
confess their feelings without the sanction of the priest ; 
others love madly, passionately, as they should do when 
they love at all ; they care nothing for the sanction of 
M’siour k cure, they think only of themselves, of then- 
lovers, — they abandon all for love. Ah, mo7i Dieu, this 
thing it is which I admire ! ’ 

Bisson paused and pressed her closer. Morna still said 
nothing ; she only trembled. 

“ For you I would sacrifice my fortune, my friends, my 


120 


THE DARK COLLEEN. 


life — everything. If I ask you, would you do this for me, 
my Morna — do you care for me enough, ma petite — am I 
all the world to you, as you are to me, little one ? would 
you abandon the world for love of me and keep with me, 
despite the things which men might say against it ? ” 

Morna looked up into his face. Bisson’s eyes were 
shining with so unnatural a light, that they seemed to 
frighten her; the hands which clasped hers were trembling 
violently, his breath was hot on her cheek. 

“ Hush ! ” she said. “ Sure I cannot bear it — don’t talk 
so ! ” 

“ Why not — to talk of love is pleasant when one loves. 
Morna ! Look at me — do not turn away — let me see your 
face, — our love is sacred without the stupid priest, is it not, 
my own ! He could not make us love more than we do love, 
nest-ce pas ? I ask you not to make the sacrifice for me ; 
when one loves there is no sacrifice, love demands it not. 
Look in my face, Morna, and tell me you would do much 
for me, that you do not love b}' — by — halfs — mon Dieu., I 
will say it — that you adore ! Do not hide your face away, 
tell me — ” 

Bisson ceased, Morna had broken from his embrace, 
and as she stood a few paces off, trembling and blushing 
— quivering with some new emotion, some new fear, she 
suddenly stood face to face with her father, who, at that 
moment, came out from the cabin-door. Dunroon saw the 
two standing some distance apart ; he did not notice 
Morna’s burning cheeks, nor Bisson’s sparkling eyes, for 
the full flood of summer twilight covered their faces with a 
natural veil. 

“ I was looking for you, Morna,” he said, “ come in ! ” 

Morna did not speak, but she gave one hasty, half 
reproachful glance at Bisson, and followed her father into 
the house. 

The next day Morna went away. Bisson did not see 
her again, for when dawn came, and the rising sun touch- 
ed with red rays the placid surface of the sea and the 
mountains and crags of Eagle Island, the captain lay 
wrapt in the sleep of innocence ; and Morna, her cheeks all 
aglow, and her eyes bright with excitement, was hastening 
with her comrades up the mountain side. 


HOW I DO LOVE THEE ! 


121 


There was a pretty sight on Eagle Island that morning. 
The mountain tops and huge columns of basaltic crag were 
bathed in crimson light. The dogs ran madly up the 
heights, jingling their bells, and before them the cattle 
went slowly and methodically, pausing now and again to 
look back with soft brown eyes and to low gently. The 
girls followed, clad in their brightest colors. Now and then 
one paused and raising to her lips the antique cattle horn, 
blew until the hills seemed to echo back the sound. It 
was a pretty sight, and one that would have delighted the 
heart of an artist in the beautiful, like Captain Bisson ; but 
he, virtuous soul, quite unmindful of the pure feast which 
he was losing, still, as we have said, lay resting in his bed. 

When"~at length he rose and found that Morna was 
gone — gone without a word, a look — his vivacious features 
grew dark and clouded. Dunroon did not notice him, for 
he too felt the loss of Morna, and besides he had other 
things weighing on his mind. Silently the two men sat 
down to their morning meal : Dunroon eating heartily, for 
grief seemed in no way to affect his appetite ; Captain 
Bisson sitting, as was his wont, stroking his soft mustache, 
and gazing half contemptuously at the steaming potatoes, 
and even at the white bread, which his host, with some dif- 
ficulty, had procured for him. The fastidious captain had 
been used to daintier fare, and although in Morna’s pres- 
ence, the coarse island food seemed to become more re- 
fined, it regained its full flavor when she was away. 

After the breakfast was over, Dunroon gathered together 
his nets. The boats were to go out that day some miles 
from shore, and as it would be night, perhaps even the next 
morning before they returned, he courteously invited Bisson 
to accompany him. The offer was refused politely enough. 
Bisson evinced little interest in the male population of 
Eagle Island, and besides after what Morna had told him, 
he was not so sure but what these infuriated animals, when 
they felt him in their power on the lonely sea, might sud- 
4cnly take it into their heads to break into open revolt 
and deprive him of his existence. They were equal to any- 
thing, thought the captain. When Dunroon had wished 
him good morning and strode off to the sea. Bisson took 
his hat and strolled out also. 


122 


riTE DARK COLLEEN. 


It was a glorious clay. There was not a cloud in the 
sky, nor a ripple on the sea, and the air was soft and warm. 
It was just the day to call up those sensuous sentiments 
which came so naturally to Bisson’s soul. But to-day no 
congenial spirit was near. The island seemed quite lonely, 
quite deserted ; even Father Moy having gone out to sea 
to bless the boats and bring good luck to the fishing. Out 
on the water the boats appeared mere specks, fading away 
into the hazv light. The caiiliaghs displayecl their atteii- 
uated charms at the door-posts, yawning and silent from 
very weariness. But from the hills was wafted down now 
and then a faint musical jingling sound as of many bells, 
which struck pleasantly on Bisson’s ear. 

This was weary work. As well be Robinson Crusoe and 
drag out a solitary existence on a deserted isle. Any female 
face would have been welcome then to Captain Bisson ; even 
the harshly chiselled featur.:s of those cauliaghs seemed to 
become more soft and fair, and had there just then ap- 
peared upon the scene some other pretty blushing maiden we 
greatly fear the Captain would have readil)' called up those 
pretty love speeches which were originally intended for 
Morna. 

But then could he conscientiously be blamed for that 
since it was only his nature ? As a landscape-painter ever 
goes into ecstasies over a charming piece of landscape, as 
a musician trembles over every musical masterpiece, so 
Bisson could not repress his admiration at sight of a beau- 
tiful person of the other sex : could not help paying to the 
owner that sentimental tribute which, he held, beauty de- 
manded. It came quite natural to him. Now, alas ! the 
case was hopeless, for all the girls were collected up yon- 
der in their virgin bowers. 

Bisson felt considerably chagrined when he thought of 
his position. He walked on for some time aimlessly look- 
ing about him in a weary discontented manner, and pull- 
ing vigorously at his mustache. He went down to the 
shore, strolled along by the cliffs, inspected the caverns ; 
he pushed out Morna’s curragh and rowed for a while on 
the sea ; but he soon came in again. He strolled about 
aimlessly till past mid-day, then he climbed the cliffs again, 
cast himself down on the heather, pulled his hat over his 


“ I/O IV I DO LOVE THEE ! 


eyes, and prepared to doze away the rest of the summer 
day. 

For a longtime he lay thus with the sun shining down 
upon him, and the insects swarming in the air above his 
head ; at length he fell asleep. 

He awakened with a start and a shiver. He sat up, 
rubbed his eyes and then rose to his feet. 

He had been sleeping for hours. 

It was evening, and it had grown quite dark. Above 
his head the thunder roared, and the lightning played in 
the sky, and the rain came down in torrents. He was wet 
to the skin. Shivering he shook himself, pulled his hat 
tight on his head, and stumbled down the hills towards 
home. Dunroon had not returned, there was no light in 
the house and no fire, and when Bisson entered, an old 
caiiliagh, who had been left in charge, sat shivering in a 
corner. In a not very polite voice Bisson ordered her to 
see to his comforts, and, trembling with cold or fright, she 
moved away. 

When Bisson, divested of his wet clothes, returned to 
the room, there was a fire on the hearth, and the air was full 
of turf smoke. A lighted lamp hung against the wall, on 
the table stood a bowl of milk, a bottle of potheen^ a sieve 
of hot potatoes, and a piece of white bread. Bisson pour- 
ed some potheen into the milk, and drank it off, broke off 
a piece of the white bread, and pushed the potatoes aside ; 
then he sat down in the only chair which the room con- 
tained, munched his bread, and looked into the fire. 

As this was no very favorite amusement of the cap- 
tain’s he soon rose, stretched his arms above his head, and 
yawned. Then he strolled to the window and looked out. 
It was a dreary prospect. The hills towered there like phan- 
toms in the darkness, the lightning rent the sky, and the rain 
poured unceasingly. Presently he turned from the window 
and paced restlessly about the room. Then his eyes fell 
upon a few old books which were carefully placed in a cor- 
ner. Bisson was not much of a reading man, but the intol- 
erable loneliness which he felt drove him to this extremity. 
He opened one of the volumes. Irish ! The quaint unread- 
able characters danced before his eyes like hieroglyphics. 
With a snap he closed the book, replaced it, and lifted au- 


124 


THE DARK COLLEEN. 


other, with the same result — another, and yet the same. 
That intolerable French monster, Ennui., had him within its 
grasp fairly now. He would have been glad of any com- 
panionship — even that of a dog. -'He bethought himself of 
the old woman. Strolling to the kitchen, he found her, 
crouched in a corner, still watching the storm ; but when 
she saw him. she crossed herself, and shrank still further 
away. 

He spoke soothingly. No word would she utter in 
reply but only glared in terror. With a malediction upon 
her, Bisson turned on his heel and departed. For a time 
he paced the inner room thinking of Morna; at last, out of 
sheer weariness of his own company, he went to bed, and 
finally fell asleep, dimly conscious of the thunder and the 
ceaseless pattering of the rain upon the ground. 

Thus the first day passed wearily away. Several others 
glided by in slow routine, until Bisson began once more to 
think of his much neglected country, to pine for beloved 
France, and seriously to think, in very weariness of heart, 
of bringing to a close his already too protracted residence 
on Eagle Island. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

IN THE PASTURES. 

I F the captain in his loneliness dragged on a dreary 
existence from day to day, this was by no means the 
case with Morna ; for the season of enforced banishment 
was converted by the island girls into a period of merry- 
making and fun. Here, free from the gaze of men, they 
could disport themselves at their will, give veins to their 
fancies, and fearlessly carry on their mad pranks with no 
fear whatever of detection. 

The spot of their resort was a beautiful one, and well 
fitted to be the hiding-place of so much “ pretty virginity.’’ 

Lough Creelish, situated in a valley on the mountain 
side, fully two miles above the level of the sea-shore, was 
a large fresh-water lake, into which flowed innumerable 


IN THE PASTURES. 


125 

streams and torrents. On its islands the duck and moor- 
hen came to rear their 3'oung ; and its banks were covered 
with otter-trails. On either shore were placed man\* rude 
cabins resembling the Norwegian saeters^ being built up 
of loose stone, and thatched with mossy turf, covered with 
grass, weeds, and the wild leek. 

These w'ere the dwellings of the mountain “ shep- 
herdesses.” 

Behind these huts, the land rose into a range of hihs, 
the sides of which were grey with huge boulders, and the 
bare peaks of which were formed of livid rock, sparsely 
covered with stray blades of withered grass and dried 
heather. Before them the land stretched in a long fiat 
valley, where the grass grew green as emerald. Beyond 
this valley the hills rose in another long range, towering 
up column above column, until their peaks and summits 
were lost in the morning cloud in summer, and in wildly 
whirling spindrift in the winter time. 

In winter this spot \vas entirely deserted: the dogs 
and cattle were driven down, the huts were abandoned to 
the mercy of the winter storms, and the wild fowl were 
left to enjoy their solitude in peace : but for a short season 
during the summer months, it became, under the auspices 
of the island girls, the liveliest spot on the whole of Eagle 
Island. 

Ever before, Morna Dunroon had enjoyed herself in 
the pastures as the other colleens had done, but this year 
she seemed duller, and at first kept a good deal by her- 
self. Soon, however, lier moodiness wore off, and ere she 
had been a week away, all her old vivacity returned to her. 
Had Captain Bisson seen her then, it is to be feared he 
would have had little confidence in the potency of her 
love. , 

But this period of retirement was by no means a time 
of mere pleasure. With the rising of the sun the girls 
rose, and separating, drove their separate herds of cattle 
over the rises to the best patches of pasture land, the 
coolest and most succulent spots, where the cattle fed 
during the heat of the day. Wdiile they fed, the girls sat 
about on the hills watching them and shifting them occa- 
sionally from place to place ; and meantime the watchers 


126 


THE DARK COLLEEN. 


laughed and talked while their fingers worked hard at the 
knitting needles or the distaff. When the sun had set 
again, the cattle were driven back to the banks of the lake, 
the milk-pails were brought out, and the girls, crouching 
down upon the grass, milked the milch-cows while the 
heifers stood lowing by. When the herds were dismissed 
to feed for the night on the banks of the lake, the girls 
lay idly on the grass, or lounged about, and took their 
meal of milk and potatoes, before finally retiring into their 
huts. 

One day passed pretty much like another up there in 
the pastures, yet to Morna the days glided by quickly 
enough. The sun had risen and set many times, the 
bright water lilies of the lake, which, when she came, had 
been deep under the surface of the water, had burst into 
their fullest bloom, and the lake was one sheet of white 
bells and emerald leaves, yet already some of the flowers 
had grown old, the leaves green and yellow, leprous spotted 
and slimy with approaching decay. 

Morna had been away from her home a full fortnight, 
and yet she did not weary to return. Her cheeks were 
much browner than when she came up, and her eyes were 
a good deal brighter. Absence from her lover might have 
made her heart ache, but certainly her grief was not per- 
ceptible ; for the mountain air had eradicated all traces of 
pain. 

Yet it must not be supposed that Morna had forgotten 
Captain Bisson. 

Often at night, when the other girls were asleep, she 
lay awake thinking of him, wondering how he bore her 
absence — if indeed he ever thought of her at all. Cer- 
tainly if she had known the truth in this respect her vanity 
would have been fully satisfied. And then she began to 
count the days until she should see him. This event, 
however, was much nearer than she anticipated. 

One day the girls were all collected about the banks of 
the lake. As it wanted only a few days to their departure, 
the cattle had not been driven to the rises but were feed- 
ing about near the lake, and on the small green hillocks 
beyond. The girls, having little to do that day, had cast 
themselves about the ground in various indolent positions. 


/X Tl/E PASTURES 


127 


Some lay" with their heads supported on their clasped 
hands, gazing unblinkingly at the cloudless sky above; 
others half lay, half sat, with their elbows stuck in the 
ground, their chins resting in their palms ; a few stood 
knee-deep in the water, gathering the reeds which grew 
between the leaves of the water-lilies near the shore ; 
others sat cross-legged on the grass, with their laps full of 
rushes, busily at work plaiting them into various forms. 
Amidst the latter sat Morna Dunroon. 

The girls had pursued their work for some time in 
silence. Presently one dropped her arms, and looked up in 
despair. 

“ Neil a vough aim,” * she said, “ sure these reeds are 
a heap too hard, and I cannot weave them. If I had some 
•of the bulrushes now that grow on the edge of the is- 
land ! ” 

“ Indeed then. Rose, they are easy enough to get,” 
said Morna, looking up from her work. 

“ Maybe,” returned the girl, “ to one who can swim 
like a fish, but that is not me. I should sink half way ! ” 

Morna laughed. 

At that moment the dogs began to bark furiously, and 
the girls turning their heads and looking at the hills 
which rose behind the huts, suddenly broke into loud ex- 
clamations, 

“ Duark in shin ! Duark in shin ! ” f they cried and 
pointed. 

Following the direction of their eyes, Morna saw, 
crouched among the crags, high up on top of the hill and 
looking down directly upon them, the figure of a man. 

She could not recognize him, he was too far away ; but 
deeming him some shepherd of the hills who had accident- 
ally wandered that way, she walked quietly up to her hut. 
When after some moments she returned the girls were 
still looking uneasily about them, but the figure was gone. 
He had risen, they said, and disappeared behind a turn in 
the hill ; he might be gone away. 

Scarcely had they uttered the words when they again 
saw the man appear close at the foot of the hill. Advanc- 


^ It is no use. 


t Look there ! Look there ! 


128 


THE DARK COLLEEN. 


ing directly towards them he exclaimed, in the silvery 
tones of Captain Bisson. 

“ Fardo7i if I have disturb you. I am wandering on the 
mountains when your voices bring me here. I could not 
stay yonder — 7iia foi^ it was horrible ; for I adore pleasant 
company, look you, and where it is not I cannot linger. ’’ 

And he smiled his sweetest smile upon them all. 

His appearance there caused some commotion. Most 
of the girls looked half frightened, some of them crossed 
themselves, others shrugged their shoulders and turned 
away, and a few laughed defiantly in his face. Quite un- 
moved, Bisson continued his polite speech, while Morna 
looked at her companions with a troubled face, and whis- 
pered to them until at length the signs of hostility were in 
a measure dispersed, and the girls laughed in the best of 
humors. 

When once their timidity was dispelled (and they were 
not inordinately bashful), they crowded about him, laugh- 
ing and chattering and darting many sly mischievous 
glances at him from beneath their dark lashes. Though 
their parents denied men the privilege of visiting them in 
their mountain homes, it must be confessed that they them- 
selves felt ratlier pleased than otherwise, when at length 
they found a man amongst them; And, indeed, Bisson 
looked worthy of their admiration, as he stood there dis- 
playing to the best advantage his shapely white hands, 
stroking his silken mustache, smiling his supremest smile, 
and complimenting them all round with the daintiest 
French grace. Morna’s face was the gravest and the red- 
dest in the throng, and upon Morna Bisson looked least. 
He was very sagacious in all he did. Much as he admired 
these Irish girls, he had no intention of letting them 
divine his secrets. So he paid little attention to Morna 
until later on, when he was seated on the grass by her 
side, and the girls were fluttering hither and thither dili- 
gently preparing for his entertainment. Then he drew 
near to Morna and in a sweet undertone murmured, 

“Ah, my Morna, it was cruel to leave me so, without a 
word, a look. I have been killed with the eitiiui without 
you, but now, 7710/1 Dieu, I am happy again, and I will rest 
so (ill you return,” 


IN THE PASTURES. 


129 


Morn a looked up. 

“ You must not stay here ! ” she said. 

“ Noil ? ” returned Bisson, elevating his brows, “ but 
why not, Morna ? Y’ou have shelter here and food, is it 
not .> 

For ourselves ; but you must not stay. It is not right 
that you should come at all. If they knew,” and she point- 
ed in the direction whence he had come, “you might get 
into trouble. 

A/i, mon Die.u ! but those men are monsters, droll 
monsters, it is true. I grow sad at the thought of joining 
them again. When is it that you will descend, my Morna ? ” 

Morna could not reply, for the girls besieged the cap- 
tain again, laughing and chattering until the air was filled 
a perfect babble of sound. The galaxy of arms and 
faces which surrounded him would certainly have appalled 
a less ardent admirer of the sex than Captain Bisson. He 
smiled approval ; he took the gifts the gods provided : 
w'arm new milk, potato-cakes, and potatoes ; and he was 
happy accordingly. 

As evening approached the fair ones grew less demon- 
strative in their conduct, and soon they hinted by their 
looks and words that it was time for him to depart. 

Bisson was not slow to notice this, and to act too upon 
their suggestion, for however friendly they had been to 
him, he reflected that after all they were but “ savages,” 
and savages, too, whose wrath it might not be well to 
arouse. So directly he saw that his company was no longer 
desired by them, he paid them a few graceful French com- 
pliments, which they did not understand, and, glancing a 
regretful and silent farewell to Morna, again made his 
way over the hills. 

As he went, he glanced back from time to time and 
saw brown hands waved to him, and heard voices calling, 
'' Slauii agud ! slaun agud ! * again and again, followed 
by peal after peal of merry laughter. 

It was far on in the night when Bisson crept back and 
took another peep over the brow of the hill. The valley 
was transformed now ; it looked to him like a glorious 


Good-by. 

9 


130 


THE DARK COLLEEN. 


glimpse of pantomimic fairy land. For on the placid sur- 
face of the lake the moon spread a silver stream ; while 
overhead the clouds drifted argent across the sky, and on 
the flowery banks the shadowy 'cattle lay and dozed and 
wearily chewed the cud. Ah Dieu, it was like a scene in 
a play ! He had seen such in the minor theatres of Havre 
and Rouen. All the girls had disappeared, the doors were 
still wide open, but at each door a dog lay dozing with its 
nose between its paws. All was silent save for a sense of 
the earth’s heavy breathing, or an occasional sound from 
the cattle or a dreaming dog. 

Quietly Bisson descended until he stood high above the 
banks of the lake. 

No sooner had he done so than there was a general 
growl like rumbling thunder, and the dogs leapt instantly 
to their feet. 

Immediately Bisson turned and withdrew. As he 
strolled over the hills to the land of men he lit a pipe; — 
fortune in that region denied him his native luxury, a cigar 
— and sending from his mouth volumes of gray smoke, he 
entirely forgot his resolution to return to his own country, 
and thought only of Morna, of the Island nymphs,” and 
their lonely Fairy Glade. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

ON THE HILLSIDE. 

'^HERE was great commotion on Elagle Island. 

T The girls, moving in little flocks about the hills 
spoke in low hurried whispers and looked towards the sea ; 
the cauliaghs clustered at the cabin-doors and conversed in 
discordant strains, looking the same way ; the dull heavy 
eyes of the fishermen momentarily brightened up into life 
as they too gazed seaward. 

And Morna Dunroon, standing in a hollow on the hill- 
side, with her hands clasped in those of Captain Bisson, 
looked thither too. 

For the moon had passed its last quarter, and the time 


ON THE IIJLLSIDE. 


131 

had almost arrived when Morna must dive down into the 
ocean to work the charm. 

There had been great commotion on the Island that 
day ; for the girls had streamed down to the shore and had 
eagerly surrounded Morna, and the cauliaghs had wrung 
their withered hands and softly moaned, and the dark faces 
of the fishermen had grown troubled as they had watched 
the rising tide. But now there was peace ; there was to be 
“good weather.” 

The sea surged softly, the tide crept gently up the sand 
and the blue sky was shaded over with a pale gray calm. 

A cold dim light was thrown upon Morna’s face. That 
facc-was not troubled, it was only perplexed ; for Captain 
Bisson stood close to her side and his soft voice was mur- 
muring in her ear. 

“ Mil foi, little one, I tell you it must not be. It is 
droll, but it is useless. There are no water-spirits, I avow 
it ; so you will stay away to please 

Bisson was skeptical, and he did not now scruple to avow 
it. He had learned to love Morna Dunroon, as much as 
his fickle, shallow nature would allow him to love anything, 
and he quite trembled when he thought of the peril which 
the girl was going to encounter. He had no belief in 
water-spirits, it is true, but he thought of other forms of 
danger. To dive down below the water at midnight, and 
to examine the sea’s bottom, required no little courage and 
skill, not to speak — ah Dieii ! — of the cold ; and in these 
respects he believed that Morna overrated her powers. 

Morna turned her eyes from the sea and looked at him. 

He seemed terribly in earnest to-night. Although there 
was woful skepticism on his curling lip, there was real love 
in his voice. As Morna watched him, she was pleased and 
gratified, and for a moment that slight feeling of apprehen- 
sion which had hitherto reigned in her breast was super- 
seded by one of intense delight. Many a cleverer girl than 
Morna Dunroon might have felt proud of this man’s pas- 
sion. He had a glorious physique, and, in looking into his 
face at that moment one might almost have been tempted 
to believe that he was possessed of an equally fine spiritual 
nature. Morna gazed at him fondly for a time ; then she 
smiled, half puzzled, half pleased. 


132 


THE DARK COLLEEN. 


“ If you do not believe,” she said, “ where do you see 
the danger ? ” 

Bisson bent nearer, clasped her closer. 

“ My own Morna, there is much danger. To begin 
with you must not go into the sea at midnight, for it is 
perilous — you will catch the cold ; then there are sunken 
rocks, I know, and those are perilous too.” 

Morna laughed^ 

“ I am not afraid. 

Ah., Dim ! but I am afraid for you, ma petite. You 
must not go, it is madness, it is superstition ; say you will 
stay for my sake ! ” 

Morna looked at him again and smiled strangely. 

For his sake ? She was doing it all for that. Had he 
never been there no such necessity would have occurred : 
this thought it was which made her task the sweeter, for at 
that moment she felt that even the peril of the undertaking 
was charmed away by one of his anxious glances. She 
turned her face aside and bent her eyes upon the ground. 

“ I could not draw back now, even if I wished, and I do 
not wish it. I am not afraid. If I can bring prosperity to 
the land I shall be proud.” 

She was a very brave girl. The captain thought so as 
he looked at her, and quite unconsciously he admired her 
the more. But she was braver than even Captain Bisson 
could understand. She had not the advantage of his cul- 
tivation. Had he regarded this proceeding from her point 
of view, he would have shrunk appalled. For Morna 
believed in the fairies and the water-spirits ; and the Celtic 
fairy, remember, is no light creation of the fancy, but a 
hideous and powerful creature with no poetic fascination — 
a being far more like the Scandinavian Troll than the Puck 
or Oberon of Shakespeare. She believed that at midnight 
the Isle na Rhuinish was strangely transformed by enchant- 
ment ; that, at that hour, evil spirits collected there ; that 
those spirits were incensed and that when she plucked the 
ocean flower they would grow more incensed, perhaps to 
the extent of holding her in enchantment and never again 
letting her return to the earth. 

With firm faith in all this she had actually volunteered 
to go. 


ON THE HILLSIDE. 


133 


As she stood there with Captain Bisson, it must be con- 
fessed that her resolution was for a moment shaken ; for 
Bisson took her in his arms again, and kissed her lips, and 
begged, and pleaded, in that soft voice of his, until the girl 
felt herself growing quite weak. It was only momentarily, 
however. She quickly disengaged herself from his arms 
and looked half-reproachfully into his face. 

“ I have given my word, and sure I must keep it,” she 
said. 

“ You are quite resolved, little one? ” 

Morna nodded. 

He put his arm around her again and drew her to him, 
and for a time the two stood silent. Presently Morna 
moved. 

“ I must go. It is near the time ; I am sure the people 
are gathering. See ! ” 

Bisson looked around him. 

It was far advanced in the night, the moon hung above 
the mountain peaks, and from every pass in the hills fig- 
ures hurried down ; others gathered together in groups, 
peering through the cold gray light towards the sea. 

It was given forth that the female population of Eagle 
Island must be absent from the cliffs until the charm was 
wrought. Far away on the top of the crags they assembled 
in one great black crowd. 

Bisson turned again to Morna and bent his face to 
hers. 

She put up both her arms, clasped them around his 
neck, and their lips met ; then without a word Morna un- 
clasped her hands, and leaving him there alone, ran into 
the hut. 

When she reached the interior she was trembling 
violently, and her cheeks were burning, and her eyes were 
full of tears. She stood for a moment with her hands 
clasped, and her teeth pressed upon her quivering lip ; 
then she sank upon her knees, raised her face to Heaven, 
and begged the blessed saints to save her that night for 
the sake of her love for “ the strange man.” 


1-34 


THE DARK COLLEEN. 


CHAPTER XX. 

FULL MOON. 

W HEN at length Morna left her room and stood upon 
the threshold of the house, she saw that it was quite 
bright, and that the hills, the crags, and the sea were bathed 
in the pale gray light of the summer moon. 

It had been calm through the da}^, and it was calm 
still. 

Nothing stirred ; not a single flower of heather on the 
hills, not a ripple on the water. Morna crossed the thres- 
hold, closed the door gently behind her, and took the road 
towards the sea. 

There was a dreadful stillness in the air. 

Not a living soul near, for the female population of 
Eagle Island, crossing themselves superstitiously, had now 
gathered into their huts, closed the doors and the windows, 
and quenched the lights ; and those groups which had be- 
fore been assembled on the cliffs were nowhere to be 
seen. 

Morna paused and looked around her. 

In one unbroken line the mountains loomed, rising one 
above another until they were lost in the blackness of huge 
precipices and moveless peaks. Beneath, in the pale 
moonlight, glimmered patches of pasture, arid wastes, 
overhanging cliffs, barren crags, and lonely meres or tarns 
casting a ghostly gleam ; and nearer still, lay the meadows, 
the reaches of tall fern and the stretches of mountain 
thyme and long grass. The heather at her feet was quite 
wet, for the dew had fallen heavily after a hot day, and the 
air was chill. The old-fashioned Irish cloak, which cov- 
ered her from head to foot, felt already clammy to the 
touch, as, drawing it about her with something of a shiver, 
Morna pursued her way. 

There was no footpath, but when she left the house she 
look a short cut across the moor which led her to the cliffs. 


FULL MOON. 


135 


and to the very spot where we first beheld her on that 
morning when she found Captain Bisson washed ashore. 

Once here she made a rapid and fearless descent, and 
soon stood upon the beach below. 

Here all seemed shadowy and deserted. The tide had 
risen high, the slimy weed-covered, moss-grown bases of 
the cliffs were covered, and the water moaned and roared 
into the huge submarine caverns, and broke into a glim- 
mer of foam along the ribbed interstices of rock and sand. 
'Fhe huge granite pillars of the Moruig Dubh flashed with 
dripping phosphoric light, and through the archway the 
moon’s light poured slantwise, bathing in its beam the wet 
archway of the rock and the surface of the surrounding 
sea. 

With her eyes fixed on the ground Morna moved slowly 
along over the rough shingle scattered along the base of 
the cliffs. 

Presently she paused and listened to a sound. It was 
only an “old wife”* fluttering in the ivy-covered cliffs 
close above her head ; so she moved on again, until she 
came to a part of the beach where the cliffs were split, 
where huge black caverns opened out, and detached pil- 
lars of granite and conglomerate rock stood solitary, rising 
black against the light. 

Voices were now distinctly audible ; she moved forw'ard 
until she reached one of the great columns of granite ; then 
she paused. 

Right before her, within a few yards of w'here she stood, 
crouched dowm in various attitudes on the beach, many 
with unlit torches beside them, the men of Eagle Island 
w^ere collected. 

They were half in shadow, half in moonlight. Some 
had their eyes fixed upon the ground, and on their faces a 
dark look of heavy dogged determination ; others seemed 
uneasy, and at every movement looked fearfully around; 
while a few had their coarse sunburnt faces turned half- 
sneeringlv upon Captain Bisson, who stood in their midst 
with his white hands outspread, his musical voice intoning. 

I tell you it is true. I never comprehended you w^ell 


* Irish name for the owl. 


THE DARK COLLEEN. 


136 

before, but now, I avow it, if you but absolve Morna 
Dunroon from this promise, I depart again for France.” 

As Morna heard this she grew- quite cold. Drawing 
nearer into the shadow of the block of granite, she, herself 
unseen, watched the group and listened on. 

The men sat silent, placid as the rocks which rose 
around them, their heavy eyes still resting upon Captain 
Bisson’s vivacious countenance, but they made no reply. 

Just outside the group Father Moy stood with his broad 
felt hat pulled deep down upon his head, his little fat 
hands holding tight on to his stick, and his broad back 
leaning against a rock. Dunroon paced restlessly up and 
down the beach, and Truagh O’More stood back in a re- 
cess of the rock smoking his pipe. Morna could see his 
face better than the others, for it was in the full moonlight, 
and as Bisson spoke, she heard him utter an involuntary 
exclamation of approvals and her heart turned very hard 
against him. 

Bisson looked into each face inquiringly, , 

“You speak not,” he said. “ Is it that you wish Morna 
Dunroon to goto this Meedian Vara to-night.^” Then 
turning to Dunroon he added, “You will speak for them.- 
It is better, is it not, that I should go away ? ” 

Dunroon paused in his walk. 

“ I have said my say and I hold to it. Go if you please, 
but devil a stranger was ever turned away by force from 
my door.” 

“ Ah, but you are good ! ” returned Bisson, with plenty 
of play with his white hands. “ I owe to you much, and I 
have no wish to bring you trouble. I would go willingly, 
quite willingly to save your child this ugly task of diving 
to the bottom of the sea.” 

Morna heard every word, heard and misinterpreted ; 
;ind as she listened her heart stopped its beating, she 
shivered all over and her hands closed tenaciously on the 
rock. She did not move, she stood fixed to the spot, 
staring at the figures before her. 

Presently Bisson spoke again. 

“ It is useless for me to speak, is it not, since they 
will not answer me ? ” Then turning to the Priest he said, 
Parbleu ! you will intercede for me, Monsicitr le curi i ’’ 


FULL MOON. 


137 


Thus addressed, Father Moy gave a broad grin of 
delight. 

“’Tis a tine gossoon that you are, every inch,” he 
said, striding forward and slapping Bisson familiarly on 
the shoulder, “ and his a gentlemanlike proposal, sir, and 
one that will be very acceptable to the present company, 
and I’ll answer for it to the child herself. Sure, it isn’t 
we that wish to send our colleens diving into the sea at mid- 
night. Now, boys,” he continued, “give your word to me 
that Morna shall stay away from that haunted isle of yours 
to-night.” 

The men were silent. Truagh drew the pipe from his 
mouth, and waited. 

Had they been so willed, they might have spoken the 
word and settled the whole matter. It would have been 
so easy to order Bisson away, but they did not wish to do 
this. Believing as they did in the fairy charm, they had a 
strong wish now that it was possible to have it tried. So 
they paused before replying, and as they did so the answer 
came for them. 

“ There is no need for them to speak. It will make no 
difference.” 

It was Morna herself who uttered the words, standing 
now before them and looking with troubled eyes into their 
faces. 

She had paused right on the spot where the moon’s 
rays fell, her black cloak drawn tightly around her, her 
face turned to the light. As Bisson looked into her eyes 
he drew nearer to her side, but she turned from him and 
spoke to the priest. 

“ I have sworn to go, Father Moy, and I shall go. I 
am not afraid. Sure I have only come now to ask your 
blessing.” 

Father Moy, hesitating for a moment, looked upon 
Morna wlio stood before him with bowed head and down- 
cast eyes. Flis hesitation was only momentary, however. 
He knew how useless it would be to fight outright against 
old superstitions, however much he might blend them with 
new beliefs. In a moment more his little fat hands were 
extended above Morna’s head in benediction. Morna now 
turned to the men. 


THE DARK COLLEEN. 


138 

“ You will strike the torches when the time comes ? '' 
she asked in Irish. 

They nodded assent. 

“ And you will stay here until I come back, inagh ? ” 

Another silent assent, and Morna turned away. 

All this time she had not spoken to Captain Bisson, 
nor looked at him ; but as she moved away he caught her 
cloak and whispered to her. 

“ Ah Dieu I it is madness. Had you listened to me we 
might have departed together for la belle F7'ance, but 
now — ” 

He said no more, for Morna was out of hearing, hurry- 
ing away with great speed along the hard stony beach. 
She was not cold now : her cheeks were burning, her 
breath came quickly-. Was she afraid, really afraid, now 
that she was drawing near to the spot where no one, not 
even the bravest fisherman on Eagle Island, would pass at 
the midnight hour ? Morna thought she was not afraid, 
yet a sense of something which she could not define im- 
pelled her to hurry on without once pausing to draw her 
breath. 

The moon cast its brightest rays before her, and she 
ran on still and kept her eyes upon the ground until she 
reached the spot. 

It was very quiet here, very still and desolate. 

The tide had risen high. The promontories of rock 
which stretched out into the sea and closed in a semicircle 
round the submerged “ enchanted ” Island, were half 
covered with the water. Behind rose the highest cliffs 
bathed now in ghostly moonlight, glistening with moon- 
dew and damp salt spray. Beneath, in deep shadow, they 
.spread out into fantastic forms and great black caverns, 
where the seals came in for shelter, and the rock pigeons 
sought their rest, nestling in the dark rocky recesses of the 
roofs. 

Into the mouth of one of these caves Morna crept, and 
as she did so a cormorant, surprised in its slumbers, 
Happed its great wings in her face, uttered a shrill scream, 
and floundered away. 

Morna stood for a moment with her heart beating hard, 
her breath coming in quick short pants, ere with trembling 


FULL MOON. 


139 

fingers she quickly unfastened her cloak and her loose 
under-dress, and let them fall from her ; then leaving her 
dress on the shingle, she wrapped the cloak around her 
again and left the cavern. When she reached the edge of 
the rocks she cast off her cloak, stepped from one to 
another of those rocky slabs which ran out into the water, 
until she stood on a broad point of granite which jutted out 
from the cliffs into the sea. 

Standing there, bathed from head to foot in the moon’s 
brightest light, with the tall cliffs rising dark beyond her, 
the sea stretching placid before her, Morna looked like a 
statue of marble — such a statue as one might have found 
on some lonely Athenian shore. For the outlines of her 
form were perfect, as the moonlight fell upon her soft white 
limbs, and upon the tremulous shadows of her hair, which 
was scattered far over her neck and shoulders. Her face 
was illumined, turning for a moment towards the sky. 

Falling in a direct line past the figure, the moon’s rays 
were cast upon the surface of the water, and lit up the 
masses of phosphorescent seaweed which clung about the 
base of the rocks and cliffs. The sea was green as mala- 
chite below her feet. All beneath there was breathing, 
stirring life ; above there was bright solemnity and peace. 

Suddenly there came a light before which the moonlight 
grew pale and dim. A lurid glare of torches was cast upon 
the ocean, reflected upon the ocean, reflected upon the 
face of the cliffs, and flashed into Morna’s eyes. For a 
moment she pressed her hand over her eyes, then she 
quickly removed it again, and while the bright fiery glare 
illuminated the water and the cliffs, she slipped from the 
rock, and sank silently into the sea. 


140 


THE DARK COLLEEN. 


CHAPTER XXI. 


THE FLOWER IS PLANTED. 


S the water closed over her the moonlight was 



quenched, and the hills, the cliffs and the sky seemed 
to dissolve away. What followed seemed like a dream*. She 
had closed her eyes when she sank into the sea ; when' 
she opened them again she had reached the bottom. A 
strange gray light played upon the water above her head ; 
she saw huge crimson flowers rising around her, magnified 
to double their ordinary size, swayed softly by the water, 
and gleaming coldly in the light. The splinters of rock 
and smooth-topped stones, lying embedded in the sand, 
became magnified before her, and the yellow-ribbed sand 
itself appeared in strange commotion. Morn a could see 
nothing distinctly, all seemed moving and swaying to and 
fro in palpitating tremor. The patches of long grass and 
sea moss which covered the spot known as the Isle na 
Rhuinish were bent this way and that way by the softly 
surging sea, and the clusters of sea anemones set amidst 
masses of tangled weed lifted up their heads beneath the 
water and moved too. All this was seen as it were only 
for a moment in one quick flash of sense . . . She reached 
the bottom, mechanically stretched forth her hand, grasped 
one of the crimson sea-flowers and uprooted it from the 
sand . . . then she let the water uplift her again, and 
rising to the surface swam slowly into shore. 

No hand had harmed her — nor had she, as she had half 
expected, been entrapped and kept at the bottom by some 
wicked spell ; yet now that she stood again upon the 
shingle she felt dazed with dread. She trembled violent- 
ly. She looked down at the sea lying so placid in the moon- 
light, and up at the black cliffs rising behind her, and then 
at the dripping crimson weed which she held firmly in her 
hand. It was all a reality then — she had dived down to 
the Isle na Rhuinish and returned to the earth again ! 
Realizing her triumph she felt glad — glad that she had 


THE FLOWER IS PLANTED, 


141 

wrought the spell successfully for Captain Bisson’s sake, 
and glad above all he would be suffered to remain. 

Creeping into the cavern again, with the flower still 
held lightly in her hand, she drew on her clothes ; then 
wrapping her cloak well about her, she made her way again 
along the beach to the spot where the men awaited her, 
still crouched in their rocky recess, holding their flaring 
torches and looking strangely at the sea. 

Silently, spectre-like, Morna crept into their midst, and 
gave them the sea-flower while the grim faces clustered 
around her in the lurid light, and coarse hands were out- 
stretched to touch her. But of these Morna took no heed; 
her eyes looked around for a face which she saw outside 
the group, regarding with a strange smile the men who 
crowded about her. When he felt her dark eye fixed upon 
him, Captain Bisson changed. The strange supercilious 
smile faded away from his lips, and his blue eyes momen- 
tarily reflected the gladness which he saw in her face. 

At noon the next day a crowd of men, women, and 
children made their way over the hills towards the s^a. 
At their head walked Father Moy. The priest moved 
slowly and methodically along — his head bowed, his eyes 
cast upon the ground, and on his face a gloomy half- 
troubled expression, which was a contrast indeed to the 
jovial look commonly seen there. Close to his side walked 
Morna Dunroon. Her white face was turned towards the 
sea, and in her hand she held the crimson ocean-flowers 
which only the night before she had uprooted from the 
bottom of the deep. Near to her was Captain Bisson, 
gazing-about him with that bright expression of skepticism 
and superiority which looked so well upon his face, softly 
stroking his mustache with the fingers of his right hand, 
and muttering beneath his breath sundry Phench ejacula- 
tions as to the ignorance of the savages amongst whom 
he dwelt. 

When the crowd had reached the shore — still damp 
with the receding tide, they paused, and gathering close 
together, stood reverently behind the priest. The men, 
uncovering their heads, quietly crossed their breasts, the 
women murmuring softly, crossed themselves too, while 
IMther Moy, pulling off his broad-brimmed hat, raised his 


142 


THE DARK COLLEEN. 


face to the shining sky above him, and walking down tho 
shingle and over a stretch of dark damp sand, stood close 
on the edge of the sea. 

In the air there was a sense of peace. The white gulls 
flitted over the water with low cries, the black heads of the 
seals floated upon the surface and rose and sank, and the 
\vailing voice of the water sounded like strange music. 
Standing upon the sand, with the foam gathering about his 
feet, his dark head uncovered, and his face raised heaven- 
ward, the priest uplifted his hands and stretched them 
forth in benediction over the calm waters of the ocean. 

“ Holy Mother and blessed Saints of Heaven,” he said 
softly in the Irish tongue, “send Thy blessing upon the sea. 
Take into Thy sacred keeping our boats and the men that 
sail in them. Keep oft Thy storms, and let it be 'Fhy 
blessed will that the harvest of fish be good. We ask this 
of Thee, Sainted Lady, that Thou may’st intercede for us 
through the medium of Thy Holy Son. Amen ! Amen ! 

As the priest paused, the men bowing low before the 
water crossed thenj selves again ; the women crossed them- 
selves too, and moaning softly, clasped their hands and 
turned their faces towards the sky ; while Morna, standing 
in front of them and still holding her crimson flower, 
looked earnestly at the spot where she had dived for the 
talisman, and then bowing her head she too made the sign 
of the cross. 

Replacing his hat upon his head the priest turned to 
the crowd, and nodding for them to follow, retraced his 
steps up the beach and again over the hills. And Morna 
walked again behind him. 

Slowly they went with their uncovered heads still bowed, 
until they came to the grave-yard attached to the rain-beaten 
chapel on the hillside, where the bones of the Spainards 
and Celts lay crumbling to dust, with many of the drowned 
dead. A wild-looking spot, strewn deep with pieces of 
broken greystone and granite, interspersed with stunted 
heather twigs, and long grass and weeds. Here and there 
a simple board was placed at the head of some cairn of 
stones to denote a favorite grave, but this was the only kind 
of token to indicate the resting places of those lying below. 

The crowd paused, and gathering together fell upon 


THE FLOWER IS PLANTED. 


143 

their knees around a cairn of stones, with their heavy eyes 
upon the priest. Then Father Moy removing his hat again, 
took the flower from Morna’s hand and held it up to the sky. 

“ Almighty God who made the earth and the sea, and 
all that they contain, who created the good as well as the 
bad, listen to our prayer. This poor flower was plucked 
from the sea, and now, naming Thy name, I bless it. Drive 
away from it all the evil spirits that possessed it, and by 
the same token drive them away from the land.” 

Then he handed the flower to Morna. Pale and trem- 
bling, she removed a stone from the mound before her, and 
planted it in the earth just above her own dead mother’s 
head. Falling upon her knees, she murmured a prayer. 
Raising his face to heaven, and again stretching his hands 
above the flower, the priest said, 

“ May all the land be fruitful, while the flower lies here. 
Let the sun shine upon it, the rains moisten it, that it may 
live, that all bad spirits and bad luck may be banished from 
the land, and we may enjoy peace and plenty in the sight 
of God and the blessed Saints of Fleaven, Amen ! Amen ! ” 

The men and women crossing themselves rapidly echoed 
“ Amen ! ” and the musical moaning growing louder and 
louder was echoed by the hills around and ascended to the 
sky, while the sun’s rays falling golden upon the graves 
seemed to bring a message of peace. 

A few hours later the great kitchen in the hut of Bro- 
ghan Dunroon was crowded with merry faces. Most of the 
young boys and girls on Eagle Island had gathered there, 
and a dance was given to wind up the happy events of the 
day. Barron O’Cloaskey rattled away on his tambourine, 
and old Cullen made several wheezy attempts to produce a 
tune from his flute ; while in the background, close up in 
the ingle, with his black bottle held tight on one knee, his 
half filled glass on the other, sat, in a quite informal and 
rakish manner. Father Moy. His face free from all the 
solemnity which it had worn while he gave the blessing in 
the morning, he smiled gayly upon all around ; his eyes 
sparkled brightly ; and throwing up his head and slapping 
his thigh with a loud laugh, he bemoaned his inability “ to 
marry Morna the brave colleoi.^ himself ; because, bad luck 
to him, he was only a priest I ” 


144 


THE DARK COLLEEN. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

IN THE TWILIGHT. 

E arly the next morning a smack sailed from Eagle 
Island, bearing away the vagrants and the ass, Cap- 
tain Bisson in his politest manner refused the offer of a 
passage to the mainland of Ireland, contenting himself for 
the present by sending on by Barron O’Cloaskey a letter 
addressed to a shipping firm in Hantour. He did not fear 
to linger now, for he felt that his lines were cast in pleasant 
places. Day by day his fancy for Morna Dunroon increased 
and held him captive. It was a happy time for him. 
Dunroon — engrossed by his occupations, and constantly 
employed in fishing at sea and tilling the land — paid little 
attention for the time being to the Frenchman’s presence 
there, and altogether failed to notice the fact that he linger- 
ed constantly by Morna’s side. Still Bisson had no thoughts 
of permanently residing on Eagle Island ; he merely intend- 
ed to stay so long as it suited his love-sick whim. His 
fancy for Morna had now attained maturit}^ and the thought 
of leaving her troubled him sorely. 'Frue, he might have 
married her, and taken her away with him, but this did not 
exactly coincide with his plans ; for as we have said, the 
captain valued his liberty, and hitherto he had very clever- 
ly avoided matrimonial bondage. But Bisson, who had for- 
merly found his relations of the other sex run smoothly 
enough, was not a little piqued to find that in this matter 
Morna’s sentiments and ideas by no means harmonized 
with his own. The “ belle saiivage ” being ignorant of the 
amenities of civilized life, found it difficult fully to compre- 
hend the various veiled hints and inuendoes of her cultiva- 
ted lover. In the usual course of courtsiiip and marriage, 
as practised on Eagle Island, Morna was quite skilled, for 
of this she had seen much ; but the kind of love-making- 
practised by the captain was quite new to her. It had been 
wrong of him, Morna thought, not to speak to her father 
before. Since he loved her so much, where was the need 


IN THE TWILIGHT. 


145 


of concealment? As day after day the virtuous captain 
made new disclosures, Morna opened her dark eyes and 
stared at him in silent wonder. 

Ah^ Dicu ! she was very stupid and it was difficult for 
a cultivated being like Bisson to bear with her ignorance. 
Had she been a civilizee she would have comprehended by 
pure intuition, and there would have been no need for such 
unpleasant plain speaking. Had he not been well skilled 
in the art which he was practising, he might ha\'e been 
defeated long before, but such a prize was worth striving 
for, and such a triumph would be well remembered. 

At length, however, the much enduring captain grew 
impatient, for Morna began to look strangely at him, and 
worse still to avoid him. He soon found it a difficult matter 
to obtain the secret interviews which he required. Thus 
as matters grew more complicated, the web of his love-mak- 
ing more entangled, his zeal increased and his determina- 
tion to succeed more established. On the ultimate conquest 
of this “ belle sauvage ” he had set his heart, and not until 
he had gained his victory would he take his departure from 
Eagle Island. 

On the after consequences of his act Bisson had not re- 
flected nor did he for a moment entertain the idea that 
Morna's fancy for him would continue after his glorious 
person was once removed from her sight, any more than 
would his own fascination for her ; and sacre., the thought 
of transporting her with him to civilized lands was out- 
rageous in the extreme ! Bisson’s personal vanity was not 
a little stung when he reflected that t!ie girl had withstood 
his charms so long, but he had no doubt left in his mind 
that his endeavors would be crowned with ultimate success 
— that cultivated virtue would triumph over savage stu- 
pidity. So although he saw that each day Morna’s face 
grew graver, that she looked at him at times with a half 
puzzled expression in her eyes, he still preserved his smil- 
ing equanimity, still made increasing endeavors to enjoy 
her society alone, merely pulling his mustache in slight 
vexation when he found how constantly his well meaning 
efforts were frustrated. 

A full week had passed since Bisson had had an oppor- 
tunity of pressing his lawless suit, and already, as we have 

10 


THE DARK COLLEEN. 


146 

sa"id, he began to chafe with long suppressed vexation. The 
firm resolution which he had made to be patient was fast 
giving way, and he almost began to curse the girl’s dogged 
stupidity, as he termed it. But as virtuous patience is ever 
rewarded, so at length was that of Captain Bisson. The 
opportunity which he had waited for came at last. Morna 
had been sent by her father to drive home the cattle from 
a distant part of the island, and as she was returning 
through the twilight she was suddenly and unexpectedly 
joined by her lover. At sight of him she gave a start, and 
began to walk more quickl}^, but Bisson held her arm and 
retained her. 

“ Mon jDicn, Morna, why is it that you hasten } ” he 
said ; “ why will you not wait with me ? ” 

Because,” she answered quietly, “it is growing dark, 
and I wish to reach home.” 

“ A/i, DieiL but there is time for that,” said Bisson, put- 
ting his arm around her waist and drawing her to him ; “ it 
is not often of late that we find ourselves thus, via chore ; ” 
then bending nearer and whispering in her ear he asked, 
“ Is it that you have altogether ceased to care for me, and 
would wish me to return myself to my own country .? ” 

Morna made no reply ; but Bisson felt her tremble. He 
pressed her closer, and continued, 

“ Because, ma chore, it would be as well to tear out this 
heart of mine as to send me away from you now. I could 
not live without you, Morna. I must have your love ! ” 

“ Sure you know that I love you,” said Morna naively, 
“for indeed I have told you that same often enough.” 

Bisson shrugged his shoulders, drew down the edges of 
his mouth, and spread out his white hands. 

“ But that is not enough for me. It is easy to say ‘ I 
love you ! ’ but that is no proof. I have said ‘ I love you ! ’ 
Bien. I would prove to you that I do so, for look you, I 
would sacrifice the world for your sake. If you love me, 
7na petite, you will do more than say so too.” 

“ What can I do ? ” asked Morna, with perfect innocence 
of his meaning. 

Bisson shrugged his shoulders, pulled impatiently at his 
mustache, and exclaimed, 

“ del, what would not one do for love ! You would wish 


rx TFIE TWILIGHT. 


47 


your soul to blend witli mine, would you not — and your 
being to blend with mine also ? Your life would become 
a part of mine ; ah, God ! you would live and breathe 
with me and for me ! all the world would become nothing 
to you apart from me, if you loved me as we love in 
France ! ” 

'Fhe words were spoken quickly, passionately ; he 
held her hands tightly and stood facing her. Morn a 
endeavored to see his face, but it was veiled in darkness. 
She felt his hot hands, his warm breath. When Itis voice 
sounded in her ears the old fascination came upon her, 
with a sort of glamor cast over her senses, she stood spell 
bound ; but behind this glamor or romance which filled her 
soul, there was a solid realism — the result of the matter 
of fact way in which she had been trained. From her 
childhood upwards she had been taught, as was every girl 
on Eagle island, that to stray ever so slightly from the path 
of virtue was not only a sin against the good God, but a 
foolish act which no girl of average intelligence would 
commit. For the female population of Eagle Island were 
valued not solely and firstly for their personal charms, but 
for the amount of cattle and land which they would ulti- 
mately possess. Any girl, no matter how ill favored, 
possessing a fortune would be certain of being sought in 
marriage ; but if any girl or man — the law applied to both 
sexes — should in the smallest particular stray from the fixed 
standard of moral propriety, she or he would be doomed 
to dwell unwed and uncared for during the rest of their 
lives. So fixed a canon had this become that the girls, 
after being made fully aware of their own pecuniary value, ' 
were left quite to themselves, and allowed an amount of 
freedom which at first had caused our civilized captain 
some amazement. But the islanders, ^ obeying their own 
laws, ‘ acting according to their own lights, were a happy 
and virtuous race from generation to generation. Hitherto 
Morna had never been tempted to question the standard 
of morals by which she had been taught to live, and now 
she thought that Gaptain Bisson’s love for her could not 
be so great as he said, or he would wish to marry her 
forthwith. He must think her a fool indeed if he deemed 
siie would accept such love as that which he offered her ; 


THE DARK COLLEEiV. 


148 

she whom they all called the “ flower of Eagle Island,” 
and who possessed a larger fortune than any girl in the 
land. He knew that she loved him, and would marry him, 
for she had told him so, and yet he was not satisfied. So 
she pushed his hands aside, and turned impatiently away. 

“ Do not speak so to me again ! ” she said. “ You 
wish me to sin against the good God, and yet you say you 
care for me. I do not believe in such love, and I would 
not accept it, for it is sinful as — as you are, as you wish 
others to be ! ” 

Between them the darkness fell like a thick veil con- 
cealing their faces, and it was well for Bisson that it did so, 
for as Morna spoke his countenance was for a moment 
strangely transformed. His blue eyes flashed angrily, his 
lip curled in contempt, and when he spoke his musical 
voice had in it a slight ring of scorn. 

“ Mon Dieu^ Morna, you are bite !yow understand not 
these things,” he returned ; “ were you wiser and more 
like those women over yonder in — in the world, you would 
understand.” 

“ Then I am glad I am not like them,” returned Morna, 
quietly. 

“ You would make no sacrifice for me ? Malediction ! 
then you love me not. I have been befooled ! ” 

She made no reply much as his words pained her. Not 
love him ! ah, how much better might it not have been for 
her had his words been true. But Morna knew that they 
were false, hopelessly false, and it was this feeling which 
made her stand mute before him now. Had she been in- 
different to him she would have turned away and thought 
no more of his words, but this she could not do. So great 
was the man’s influence over her she could only stand and 
look into his face like a dumb thing pleading for mercy. 
But Bisson’s voice was still cold and hard when he spoke 
again. 

“ Since you care nothing for me,” he said, “ it will be 
well for me to return myself to my own country, for I can- 
not linger here ! ” 

Still Morna did not speak, but her heart sank and she 
seemed to grow quite cold — with an effort she repressed a 
sob, but hot tears started to her eyes. To lose him seemed 


IN THE TWILIGHT. * 


149 


to her the worst of all ; for she felt that her whole heart, 
her whole soul, was bound up in him. She had not fully 
realized this before. He had struck the right spring at 
last. Morna lost all her self-control, and covering her 
face with her hands sobbed aloud. 

“ You are cruel — you know I love you ! ” 

In a moment Bisson was beside her, his arms were 
round her, he drew her to his breast. For a few moments 
she stood sobbing in his embrace, her cheeks pressed 
softly against his shoulder. Presently, as the sobs sub- 
sided, Bisson spoke softly in his old musical voice. 

“ Ah, my Morna, it is you who are cruel,” he said, 
“ for you send me from the one I value most in this world. 
If I did not care for you, ma petite., I should not wish for 
you ’ 

“ Sure you know that you have me ! ” answered Morna 
in a low trembling voice. Bisson made a grimace, but 
Morna could not see, for her tear-stained face remained 
half buried on his shoulder. 

“ But I would keep you for always — ^you understand } ” 

Morna raised her head. 

‘‘You will not go away?” she asked gazing wistfully 
into his face. 

“ I cannot tell — it is you who have the power to keep 
me, Morna, if you will, Listen ! ” Bisson’s lips softly 
touched her cheek as he whispered. “ If you will trust 
me as I wish you, I will stay with you and I will adore 
you forever — but if you will not, why then I shall know 
that you do not care for me and I shall sail away beyond 
the seas — you understand — and you will never behold me 
again ? ” 

He paused and looked at her, but she stood silent, 
weighing his words in her mind. She had to choose be- 
tween two evils — between sin and wretchedness, for she 
felt that to lose him would break her heart again. Again 
the struggle rose in her breast, and this time love held the 
mastery. She felt herself growing quite powerless, quite 
too weak to resist the evil influence of this man. The 
poison had entered her soul at last. She thought of noth- 
ing but losing him. All the memoiy of the sinfulness of 
his love died away. She trembled. 


THE DARK COLLEEN. 


^50 

“ Do not leave me,” she said, “ T could not bear that,” 
and creeping nearer to his side rested her head upon his 
breast. In a moment she lelt herself clasped passionately 
to his bosom, his kisses rained upon her cheek and lips ; 
and in his wild exultation at her quiet submission, Bisson 
pressed her to his breast again and again, until Morna, 
flushed with shame, tore herself from his embrace. She 
stood a few paces from him, staring at the darkness of the 
shadow she knew was he. She was amazed at herself, 
shamed for herself, and afraid at last of him. Bisson 
made a step towards her and held forth his hands, but 
Morna thrust him aside. 

‘‘ Do not touch me ! ” she said, “ do not come near ! ” 

“ What is this, my Morna ? ” asked Bisson amazed. 

“I will not listen to you ! ” she returned in a voice full 
of suppressed excitement, “for you are a bad man, I know, 
and you wish to make me bad too. 1 was mad just now, 
but I know now what I am saying ; you do not care for 
me — you cannot, or you would not tempt me so — and if 
you love me — your love is sinful and — you may go ! ” 

With an effort she uttered the words, and as she finished 
tears started to her eyes again and she covered her face- 
It was a terrible struggle, for even before she had finished 
speaking she felt impelled to cast herself in his arms and 
sob out her penitence upon his breast. Had Bisson come 
to her then and whispered softly in her ear, all her resolu- 
tion might have faded — all her scruples have been over- 
come ; but stung by her words, he was thrown off his 
guard, and his face went white with anger. 

“ You are a fool or worse ! ” he said, “ you wish only to 
become my wife : but I know you better, so I am well rid of 
you I say ! ” 

The words fell coldly upon her ear. Her excitement 
gradually subsided, her tears ceased. Listening to him, 
she bit her lip until the blood came to the skin. 

In his sudden mortification Bisson had made a mistake, 
but he was not one to spoil his chance by any undue 
exhibition of spleen. Quickly recovering himself, and 
cursing the evil genius which had caused him to make so 
false a speech, he cautiously approached Morna’s side. 

“ My Morna,” he whispered in his sweetest tones, “you 


CAP7'AIN BrSSO.Y AfAA'ES A DISCOVERY, 


make me mad — positively mad, but 3^ou will whisper to me 
now that you will forgive me, li’est-ce pas ? for look you, 
little one, I was to blame — ah, del/ yes, I was to 
blame ! ” 

Morna bent her head and was silent, so Bisson con- 
tinued. 

“ It was your own sweet face that made'me forget, little 
one, but you must forgive me ! ” 

His arm was stealing round her waist again, but Morna 
quickly shrank away. 

“ Yes, yes,” she said quickly, “I will forgive you — if — 
if you will but go away and leave me this night in peace ! ” 

Bisson’s fair face grew white again, and his hand pulled 
hard at his mustache. He glanced angrily at her, then 
he turned on his heel and left her without another word. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

CAPTAIN BISSON MAKES A DISCOVERY. 

H IS hands thrust deep into his trousers pockets, and 
his felt hat pulled down low over his eyes, Bisson 
strode on aimlessly enough over the hills. The night was 
very dark, for there was no moon. The wind which swept 
down from the hillside was chilly, and the air was damp 
as if with thick mist or heavy clew. The captain could 
scarcely see in what direction he was going, but he stum- 
bled along over the heather, uttering a medley of maledic- 
tions as he went. The wind wailed mournfully, but save 
for its increasing cry the air was very quiet. Beasts and 
birds had long since betaken themselves to their rest, and 
so seemingly had the inhabitants of the island. As Bis- 
son looked before him at the dense shadows of earth and 
air, he saw onlvone or two rays of light shining out through 
the night. Heedless of these he walked on and on he 
knewnot whither, his heart in a flutter, his head in a whirl. 
The kind of experience he was then undergoing was quite 
new to him, and, seemingly, not much to his taste. He, 
the superior being, the representative of civilization and 


152 


THE DARK COLLEEN. 


amour propre.^ had positively sued in vain for the favors 
of a veritable savage ; it seemed incredible, yet so it was, 
and — worse complication still — the’ savage possessed so 
much of his affection as to hold him, despite himself, a 
prisoner. Yes, Bisson felt now that he loved Morna Dun- 
roon so hopelessly that migration from her vicinity would 
be quite out of the question. Since she refused to smile 
upon his lawless suit, there was little danger of his passion 
being quenched, his fascination fading into a dream. Had 
it been otherwise, he would have cast her away without a 
second thought, and sailed away, as he had threatened, 
back to France. 

What to do ? Bisson could not determine, since a much 
more protracted residence on Eagle Island was not feasible, 
nor for that matter seemed the alternative of making 
Morna his wife. Much as he loved her, he still shrank 
viciously from the idea of marital bondage. 

It was very annoying, very perplexing, all this ; and 
had the girl been more sensible, more sensitive to loving 
speeches and moonlight walks, things might have been 
arranged amicably enough, and Bisson could have dreamed 
out his dream, broken another heart, wrecked the life of 
another fellow-creature, and become a man again. But 
the thread of his love had this time become hopelessly 
tangled, and had led him into a dilemma from which he 
saw no escape. He felt now that all his hopes of winning 
Morna Dunroon a la mode Bisson must be abandoned ; 
and on the alternative he pondered and pondered as lie 
walked swiftly on through the gloom. 

Suddenly he paused and raised his head. One jet 
black cloud covered the sky and loomed darkly over the 
ocean, the wind moaned and whistled around him, and the 
rain began to fall heavily. 

He glanced around. It was very dark. He could not 
quite determine in what direction he had come,, he could 
not even discern the faint glimmering of the distant sea. 
It was clear that he had wandered some distance ; and 
some time too must have elapsed since he set out, for 
nearly all the rays of light had disappeared from the cabin 
windows, and the land lay concealed in intense darkness. 
Bisson turned round and retraced his way through the 


CAPTAIN BISSON MA ICES A DISCO FEE V. 1-3 

gloom. Harder and harder the rain poured, beating 
fiercely into his face. Once or twice he paused, shook his 
dripping clothes, and groped about for shelter, but none 
seemed near. He stood seemingly on a barren hillside 
with a damp morass beneath his feet, a stormy sky above 
him. 

Again he looked about him, and this time he saw a 
faint red glow penetrating the darkness which concealed 
all the surrounding land — a red glare which seemed to 
issue from the window of a neighboring hut. 

“ Sainte Marie ! ” exclaimed Bisson, “ we have shelter 
here. Dieu merci ! ” 

Accordingly he shook himself again and made his way 
slowly towards the light. As he crept past the window of 
the hut, however, he paused ; for the sound of voices 
struck upon his ear, and as he approached the door he 
heard the mention of his own name. In a moment his 
senses were on the alert ; he stood still, near the partly 
open doorway and listened. There was a buzzing, a hum- 
ming and a rustling of straw inside ; presently the same 
voice broke out again. 

“Begod, then, I say ’tisthe Frenchman and none other 
that’s working against us and the blessed saints of heaven. 
Didn’t I tell you from the first there was little good in him ? 
so I did ; and so I say still. ’Tis in league with the 
damned he is, or ’tis not so he could work against the 
charms of God.” 

“Faith, I’m thinking yer right, Manus Dunmore,” said 
another voice, “and ’tis a lot of omadhauns ih.2X we’ve been, 
one and all, so we have, not to have seen it long before. 
What is Dunroon that should go against us.? sure ’tis we 
that could pitch him clane into the say itself, and that son 
of a devil the Frenchman after him for that matter, and ’tis 
little harm would be done.” 

“ Mon Dieu I ” exclaimed Bisson, “ he is demonstra- 
tive, this man.” 

The window was uncurtained, so rising he cautiously 
peeped in. One half of the room was concealed in utter 
darkness, the other half was irradiated by the red fire glow, 
but all the air was thick with smoke. Around the fire, 
crouching upon the ground, with the fire illuminating their 


THE DARK COLLEEN. 


154 

faces, were several men, amongst whom Bisson easily rec- 
ognized some of those who had spoken at the Feast of 
the King. In a corner close beside the fire, seated com- 
placently upon an upturned cauldron, a cauliagh^ or old 
woman, dozed, and a great earthen jar stood close beside 
the fire. 

Bisson glanced hurriedly into the room, then he as hur- 
riedly drew back, for a coarse-looking giant rose to his 
feet, tossed off the contents of a drinking vessel, and thus 
addressed his companions : 

“ ’Tis a lot of poor blind creatures that we are, one and 
all, else why does the Frenchman live ? He manes to stick to 
us, 'tis clear, and unless that we put an end to him entirely 
there’s little good that’ll come to the land, believe vie'' 

Just then the howling of the wind ceased for a moment 
and all was still; then with the fury of a tiger it swept upon 
the house, shaking it to its foundations. The cattle began 
to low, the dogs in their dark corners barked fiercely, the 
cauUagh looked about in half-sleepy alarm, and simulta- 
neously the men leapt to their feet ; for the door gave way 
and fell with a great crash, the wind swept into the room 
and scattered the red embers of the fire, then died away 
again, — as Captain Bisson, drenched with the storm and 
shivering in every limb, crossed the threshold and boldly 
advanced into the middle of the room. 

At sight of this apparition the cauliagh screamed and 
crossed herself, the men stared fiercely ; but Captain Bis- 
son, full of his customary assurance and beaming with his 
habitual smiles, cast off his dripping coat and advanced 
towards the fire. 

“ The weather has turned wild, my friends,” he said, 
seemingly blind to the dark looks which rained upon him. 

‘ I had wandered far over the hills when suddenly the 
storm came on and I could not return, for, look you, the 
road was bad and one could see nothing.” 

He stretched his white hands above the turf sods, and 
looked again at the men who still stood silent before him. 
Bisson proceeded. 

I crouched to leeward of the house for shelter, and it 
was then, look you, I heard your conversation and deter- 
mined to approach you.” 


CAPTAIN BISSON MAKES A DISCOVERY. 


55 


At this unconcerned announcement the dark faces of 
the men grew black as thunder, Manus Dunmore advanced 
to Bisson’s side. 

“ And since you have heard,” he said, spitting out the 
words through his set teeth, “ wouldn’t it be better for ye 
to go ? ’Tis a bad night, as ye said, and dangerous to be 
abroad.” 

Bisson’s bonhomie did not desert him. 

“ Ma foi I ” he said very quietly, “you would not wish 
to turn me out in such weather as this. The rain falls 
heavily, and as it is I am drenched to the skin.” 

Then turning his back to the fire and looking frankly 
into the faces of the men, he smilingly continued, 

“You are all wrong, my friends, quite wrong. I have 
not brought you ill, ma foi, not at all. Your spell of the 
Meedian Vara succeeds not \ bien^ it is through no fault of 
mine ; but since you think that I have brought you ill luck 
I have determined to go away.” 

Either this announcement or Bisson’s cooing voice 
seemed to soothe away the anger of the men, and they 
looked less doubtfully at him, and he perceiving the effect 
of his words smiled again well pleased. Spreading out 
the palm of his right hand, and with the fingers of the 
other softly stroking his silken mustache, he continued to 
speak in that soft persuasive way of his until the dark 
looks of the men changed to glances of positive admiration. 
Before his smiles, the prejudices which had reigned in 
the breasts of these islanders melted away like snow before 
sunshine. Again they gathered around the fire, lit up their 
pipes, filled their drinking vessels, and kept up an incessant 
strain of grim mirth. And in their midst sat Captain 
Bisson, drinking, and smoking, and talking with the rest. 

Shortly after midnight the storm abated : the rain 
ceased to fall, and from the broken edges of the clouds 
the moon’s rays fell upon the earth. Then Bisson rose to 
his feet, shook back his golden locks and gazed about him. 
His companions were scattered in various attitudes about 
the floor, the fire had died out, and the cauliagh lay in the 
corner snoring on her bed of straw. Advancing to the 
prostrate form of Manus Dunmore, Bisson placed his white 
hand on his shoulder and shook him. 


THE DARK COLLEEN. 


156 


“ Wake up, chien /” he cried. 

The only answer was a groan and some muttered words 
in Irish. Bisson turned away, threw on his still saturated 
hat and stepped across the threshold. The cool air blow- 
ing in his face was very refreshing. When his mind was 
sufficiently coherent to review his late proceedings, he 
smiled at his little adventure, thanked the saints for his 
lucky escape, and throwing back his head descended the 
hills humming in a musical voice a lively French air. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 


AND A RESOLUTION. 



ITH the memory of his last interview with Morna 


» » still in his mind, and the newly awakened knowledge 
of his precarious position still weighing upon him. Captain 
Bisson felt that his stay on Eagle Island was rapidly be- 
coming intolerable, and he began to speculate very seri- 
ously on the course of action which it would be wise for 
him to adopt. That Morna was prepared to meet his in- 
formal offers of affection with a decision fatal to all his 
fondly cherished hopes, he knew full well. Many times 
since that night when she had repulsed him on the hillside, 
he had read his fate in her eyes. She treated him with a 
show of cold unconcern which wounded his self-love 
cruelly ; avoiding him now more than ever, and seldom 
addressing him even when her father was by. Worse com- 
plication of all, her strange perversity only made him ad- 
mire her the more. 

Yes, Captain Bisson felt now that to travel back into 
the world alone, leaving Morna behind him on the lonely 
island was an act which he lacked the moral courage to 
perform. Since this was so, and since he found it impos- 
sible to win the girl in his favorite fashion, he actually be- 
gan now to contemplate the more serious step of making 
her his wife. 


AND A RESOLUTION. 


157 


It was not withont considerable hesitation that Captain 
Bisson arrived at this point, for he was not a m;yi for whom 
home comforts and virtuous domestic affection had much 
charm, and the idea of sacrificing his freedom was by no 
means pleasant to him. However, he was determined not 
to lose Morna Dunroon. His glorious freedom, he believed, 
would be robbed of much of its sweetness if the girl was 
taken from his side. 

When he had finally decided in his own mind that a 
prosaic marriage might be the conclusion of his romantic 
escapade among the islanders, he seemed by no means 
eager to put his idea into execution, and had it not been 
for the sudden announcement of the impending departure 
of Father Moy, his wavering doubts might never have been 
settled. It was this news alone which ultimately caused 
him to unfold his plans to Morna. 

When, bringing his face close to hers, he spoke to her 
again, her soul grew strangely troubled, for she thought, 

*• It was so he spoke to me before, when I knew he was 
not kind.’’ 

And Bisson seeing the anxious look pass over her face, 
and perhaps divining something of its cause, said in a low 
voice, 

“ 1 was bad, my IMorna, horribly bad, and peat e Ire I 
thought you less wortliy than you are, but if you will mar- 
ry me and think of tint no more, I shall love you better for 
what is past and gone ! ’’ 

Gently she raised her liead and looked into his eyes ; 
then putting her hands into his, and resting her head upon 
his shoulder she burst into tears of real joy. 

“ I thought you had made me love you when you did 
not care for me,” she said softly. “ You vrere cruel ! oh, 
you were so cruel ! and I was sad, but if you had gone 
away from me I think I should have died I ” 

Bisson clasped her closely in his arms, smoothed her 
cheek, kissed her, and murmured softly, 

“ Do not think of that, ma mie, since unhappiness and 
cruelty will never come to you again ! ” 

Silently she stood with her hands clasped in his, her 
head resting on her shoulder, and Captain Bisson smooth- 
ed her cheek and kissed her once more. She did not wish 


THE DARK COLLEEN. 


158 

to speak or to question the happiness which had suddenly 
come upon her ; it was enough for her to feel that it had 
come, that to all her troubles peace had succeeded at last, 
and that the love which she had given so fervently was as 
fervently returned. 

“To-morrow, at sunset, M' sieur le Cu7't sails away,” 
said Captain Bisson at length rousing Morna from her clay 
dream. “ So to-morrow morning we will repair to the 
little chapel, and be wed, n'est-ce pas ? ” 

The suddenness of the proposed ceremony by no means 
surprised Morna, for a courtship of three days was consid- 
ered unusually long on Eagle Island ; and as she had only 
to don her best dress, and invite the young people to a 
dance in the evening, the time was quite long enough. 
Besides, as the priest was going away, further delay was 
quite out of the question. So she gave a silent assent to 
his proposal, merely remarking, 

“ My father must know to-night, or he will be away at 
the fishing.” 

“ Your father ! ” exclaimed Bisson. “ Mon Dieji, but you 
must not say a word to him ! ” 

“ Not tell my father? ” asked Morna, opening her eyes 
in genuine amazement. 

“ Not at all, for if you do he will not suffer us to go. 
He would keep you here, and send me forth alone, and 
then my Morna we should never meet again ! ” 

Morna looked at him, but made no reply. She could 
not believe that he spoke earnestly : that he wished her to 
take this decisive step without saying a word to any soul. 
It was enough, she thought, that she had kept his love a 
secret; that she had done contrary to her own wish, but 
through her great love for him she had obeyed him. Yet 
now, when there seemed no cause for further concealment, 
she disliked acting by stealth, as if she were committing 
some crime. She had no secrets from her father before 
Captain Bisson came, and it made her unhappy that she 
should have any now. 

But the thought of leaving her lover made her heartsick. 
Could it be that her father would separate them if he knew ? 
It seemed improbable to her, and yet Captain Bisson had 
said so. 


AA'jD a resolution. 


159 


While she stood hesitating, Bisson spoke again. 

“ If you care for me, Morna, you will do this — just this 
-—for my sake ! ” 

As he spoke, the recollection of what he had said to her 
before flashed again across her mind, and she looked at 
him very strangely. Bisson met the look and read its 
meaning. For a moment his features contracted, then he 
bent his face quite close to hers, and took both her hands 
in his. 

“You think you cannot trust me, me. petite V he said. 
“ Well that is wrong — I would not harm you — ah, never ! 
If you will but be good now, and do as I wish, I will swear, 
yes, I will swear by the saints, I mean you no harm, for I 
love you, my Morna, far too well ! ” 

Bisson spoke earnestly. Morna, listening, felt all her 
doubts and misgivings disappear. What could she do but 
trust him — for after all it was so little that he asked, since 
when she had become his wife she might tell her father 
without incurring the danger of being torn from her hus- 
band’s side. So she looked up into his eyes, with all the 
old love and confidence which pleased him so well and gave 
a silent consent to his wish. 

Now that the obstacles were in a measure removed 
from his path, Bisson felt considerably more at ease. For 
after all, he reflected, if one must marry at all, one might 
do considerably worse than marry a girl like Morna Dun- 
roon, and it was certain the girl loved him with a quiet 
intensity which was very flattering to his self-esteem. Yes, 
on the whole he was contented with what he had done and 
waited impatiently for the conclusion. He must see the 
priest at once and arrange matters amicably with him — an 
ordeal Bisson contemplated with no very pleasant thoughts, 
since he had reason to fear that Father Moy might not be 
so amenable to his wishes as Morna had been. The priest 
had fixed ideas upon most things, mundane as well as super- 
mundane, and his con\ actions were by no means easily 
shaken. Captain Bisson knew that all his eloquence would 
be needed to bring the divine to a proper understanding of 
the case. So with the intention of seeking a private inter- 
\ jew with Father Moy, Bisson put on his hat, and leaving 


i6o 


THE DARK COLLEEH. 


Morna to prepare for her father’s return, walked down to- 
wards the shore. 

The priest had gone out with the fishermen that day to 
‘‘bless ” the haul, and to bring them “good-luck ” before 
he made his departure. It was growing late and already 
past the hour of their return when Bisson reached the shore. 
Standing upon the shingle he saw the boats appear one by 
one, and pass in a long black line through the granite arch- 
way of the Moruig Dubh and draw in to the shore. But 
the curraghs were almost empty ; only a few fish lay in the 
bottom of that in which Dunroon sat beside the priest. 
Father Moy’s face was very grave, but he doffed his hat in 
acknowledgment of Captain Bisson’s salute. The fishermen, 
however, turned sullenly away. Bisson noted this silently, 
and though no change passed over his face, he felt more 
than ever that he had acted wdsely when he cautioned 
Morna to keep their plans secret from her kin. At mo- 
ments like this, these islanders inspired him with a certain 
amount of fear ; for he felt like one cast adrift on a savage 
place and at the mercy of a savage people. 

When the boats Avere on the shingle and the priest had 
stepped ashore, Captain Bisson, touching him on the shoul- 
der requested the pleasure of his company across the hill ; 
so after he had sprinkled the boats and prayed for a better 
harvest on the morrow. Father Moy walked away by the 
Frenchman’s side. Then Bisson, with many preparatorv 
smiles and much play of his white hands, gradually unfolded 
his plans, and finally solicited the priest’s aid. 

“And as it is to-morrow night that you sail,” he con- 
cluded, “we wish you to perform the ceremony in the 
morning before you go. But there must be no word of it 
breathed, Arsieur le cure^ for look you, the men are already 
against me, and they might hound me away from the place ! ” 

To all this the priest listened gravely, but Avhen the 
smiling captain paused he threw up his head and glanced 
at him from head to foot. 

“ Begod, sir ! ” he exclaimed, in an unnecessarily loud 
voice, “ tis not so we settle matters on Eagle Island. If 
you want the child, sure you must get her as an honest man 
should.” 

“You will be overheard,” exclaimed Bisson, gazing 


AA^B A RESOLUTION. 


i6i 


anxiously around. Then coming closer and laying his 
hand persuasively on the priest’s shoulder, he continued, 
“ V7'aime}it., Af’sieur/e cure I would do as you wish, since I 
do not love concealment ; but if I told 7ioiv., I should have 
to return to France and leave Morna here alone.” 

“ And maybe that same would be better for the child, 
since she is not fit to marry the like of you,” said the priest, 
eyeing the sailor from head to foot. “ Eagle Island is her 
home, sir ; ’tis here she’s been born and reared, sir ; and 
wouldn’t it be better that she should settle with one of her 
own people, than take up with a gentleman like yourself, 
for after all, a gentleman you are.” 

Bisson smiled. The idea of Morna Dunroon, a girl 
whose beauty had fascinated hi77i so strangely, being con- 
tent to settle down for life in a savage hovel, amused him 
vastly. And the priest observing the smile continued, 

“ The child was happy before you came, sir, and surely 
she would be happy if you were away ! ” 

“ There you are wrong, ATsieur le cure interposed Bis- 
son, “ if you spoke out 7iotv and refused to marry us, you 
would repent — if you care at all for Morna Dunroon.” 

“ What do you mean ? ” asked the priest, quickly ; and 
Bisson replied, 

“ I mean it is already too late to talk of separating us, 
M’sieur. If you care for the child, you will do as I wish 
without further delay.” 

And he threw so strange an expression into his face, 
that Father Moy stared at him in blank amaze. Bisson, 
perceiving that he had struck the right spring at last, en- 
larged upon an idea which had only just occurred to him, 
until he wrung from the priest a reluctant consent to join 
the pair together on the following day, in order to help 
poor Morna from the disgrace into which he began to fancy 
she had fallen. Having settled matters thus satisfactorily, 
Bisson held forth his hand, but Father Moy only looked at 
it curioush’, while his own little hands kept running up his 
coat sleeves : and the slightly discomforted captain was 
obliged to turn away. He was glad that his ruse had suc- 
ceeded, glad that it had occurred to him at all. He had 
implicated Morna, certainly, but what was that ? the girl 
would never know, he would take care of that ; and as to 


i 62 


THE DARH COLLEEN. 


the priest, well it mattered little -what he thought of the 
matter, if he concealed his thoughts within the sanctity of 
his own breast. The priest was graver than usual that 
night, and glanced again and again so strangely at Morna, 
that Bisson kept close to her side until the other had left 
the house, least he might think it advisable to question her 
as to the strange disclosures which had been made. 

About noon the next day when all the fishing-boats 
had put to sea again, and the smack lying anchored off 
the land was making preparations for departure. Father 
Moy, accompanied by a ragged man and woman, stood 
before the door of a whitewashed building which stood on 
the desolate hillside, and pushing it back upon its grating 
hinges entered in. 

It was a tolerably large building, but barren as an 
English barn. The floor, which was of damp earth, had 
a clammy feeling to the feet ; the walls were damp, and 
stained brown with the wild beating of the winter storms. 
This chapel was seldom used, save in the autumn time 
when the islanders were wed, and then the patches of 
damp on the crumbling walls were concealed beneath 
bunches of heather and wild thyme. In the middle of the 
floor stood a good sized washing-tub full of holy water, 
and at one end was an altar, half broken down. Towards 
this altar the priest, closely followed by his attendants, 
made his way, and after he had made them swear to say 
no word of what was going to take place, he cast down his 
broad-brimmed hat and stick, placed a velvet cap upon 
his head and a long broad ribbon covered with colored 
crosses upon his neck, and turned his eyes towards the 
door. Scarce had he done so, when there appeared in 
the chapel the figures of Captain Bisson and Morna Dun- 
roon. 

Bisson looked bright and smiling and well pleased, but 
Morna’s face was very pale, and as she stood before the 
altar with her hand in his, her fingers trembled nervously, 
and she glanced about her in strange dread. When the 
ceremony was over, and in a low trembling voice the 
priest had blessed the pair, Morna, raising her eyes full of 
love and trustfulness to her husband’s face, placed her 
fingers in his outstretched hands, while he drew her nearer 


RE TROSPECTION. 


163 


to his side. The priest watching them, smiled, glad now 
that he had 3delded to the captain’s solicitations. 

That night, after he had blessed them again and wished 
them all happiness and good luck. Father Mo}^ sailed away 
to the mainland, bearing his secret with him. 


f 


CHAPTER XXV. 


RETROSPin^TION, 



PME passed on. Summer faded away, and the month 


-L of harvest came, bringing with it new trouble to Eagle 
Island. For the corn withered in the ground, the potatoes 
took the black disease, and the iDopulation began to wail 
and talk of a famine in the land. 

When things came to this pass, Captain Bisson, who 
through guarding his secret so well, had been enabled to 
spend the first few weeks of his married life in peace, knew 
that his personal safety was by no means assured, and once 
more he began to think very seriously of returning to his 
native land. Besides he had nothing now to keep him. 
Morna was his own, all his own to take away whenever and 
whithersoever he chose to go ; the life on the island was 
becoming very wearisome to him, and longing for a sail on 
the sea and a sight of civilization, he set his mind now on 
finding a ship to carry them away. 

Some time passed, and no ship came. Eagle Island, 
as we have said, was not a regular seaport, but was visited 
only at long intervals by small coasting vessels, while now 
and then a smack came over bringing Father Moy from 
the mainland. 

Time passed, and Bisson grew very anxious and irri- 
table. Each day, as lie thought, increase his danger. 
Regarding him as the primary cause of their misfortunes, 
the islanders looked very dark whenever they encountered 
him, and feeling himself a prisoner, he longed more than 
ever for the ship which would bring him his freedom. 

'At length it came. 

A good-sized smack, with all its brown sails full spread. 


THE DARK COLLEEX. 


164 

ran one day into the harbor, and Bisson making enquiries 
found to his delight that it was bound for Crome, a neigh- 
boring sea-port on the mainland and the residence of Father 
Moy, whither it would sail the next night. 

Quickly Bisson hurried up to the house to communicate 
his good news. Dunroon hailed it as good news indeed, 
for to speak truth he had been long wishing for Bisson’s_ 
departure. Morna, who sat close by spinning, heard all he 
said, raised a face ghastly white to his and opened her 
lips, but Bisson motioned her to be silent, and she looked 
away again. 

\\dien Dunroon had gone down to the shore to give the 
sailors a welcome, and the two were left alone, she rose 
from her seat, put her spinning-wheel aside, and standing 
right before him, asked in a low trembling voice the mean- 
ing of the words which he had spoken. In all the fervor 
of her love-dream, Morna had never contemplated this ; 
she had married him in all good faith, because she had 
wished to be near him. It had scarcely occurred to her 
that if she was once wed to him he could ever wish to go 
awa}^ and now she felt in a vague hopeful way that his 
words, spoken so lightly, might have some other meaning 
than that which she had understood. Listening to her, 
Captain Bisson smiled in his old superior way, and putting 
his arm about her, and drawing her fondly to him, he said, 

“ It means, my Morna, that I must go home ! ” 

“ Go home ? ” she repeated dreamily ; and Captain Bis- 
son smiling more supremely than before, replied, 

‘•Assuredly, machere! I have lingered here too long — 

I must depart if only for a little while ! ” 

For a time, they were both silent; then with a sob, 
Morna turned away. 

“You promised never to leave me,” she said, “and I ^ 
believed you when you said it — but now — ” 

“ And now, Morna,” returned Bisson, opening his blue 
eves, “ I will keep my word, for look you, I go not alone. 
Yes, it is all settled — you will come with me to France ! ” 
Morna turned and gazed at him in consternation. The 
idea of leaving her home had never once occurred to her. 
Even when he had spoken of departure, it had not struck 
her that he would wish her to go too. Trivial as this cir- 


RE TROSPEC riON. 


165 

cumstance appeared to Captain Bisson, it was overweighted 
with importance to his wife. Brought up as she had been 
on the shores of the lonely island, with no knowledge of 
the outer world, and still less of .the corrupt humanity 
which that world contained, she had created pictures of both 
in her mind, and set them in a glorious halo of her own 
thoughts^ Often as she had dreamed and pondered over 
these visions, she had never once been able to picture her- 
self away from her father and her people, dwelling in that 
strange land ; and now that the proposition w^as so sudden- 
ly made to her, it seemed to fill her with a strange passion- 
ate longing as w’ell as fear. Looking into Captain Bisson’s 
face with a half-startled expression in her eyes, she invol- 
untarily shrank away. 

“ Sure I cannot leave Eagle Island,” she said. 

Bisson shrugged his shoulders and raised his brows. 
The earnestness of Morna’s manner almost amused him 
“ Bah ! what is Eagle Island.? ” he asked. 

And Morna gently replied, 

“ It is my home, and all the world to me. Sure, I know 
nothing of that other place that you wish to take me to, and 
maybe it is not so fair as I have thought.” Clasping her 
hands around his arm, and looking appealingly into his 
eves, she continued, “ Oh do not go away ; I could ^ not 
bear to leave my home, and w'e are very happy here ! ” 
Then Bissoii, touched by the gentle pathos of her man- 
ner, looked fondly into her face, and told her of the dangers 
which beset him, of the wrath of the people, and with due 
exaggeration, of their threats of vengeance. He added, 
‘Hf you desire it, my own, I wall linger despite all this ; 
ves, I will linger for love of you, since you, ma mie, are 
more to me than all the w'orld. But I feel that you will 
not desire me to stay, since my friends yonder will all think 
me dead; and I might as w'cll cut my throat wath a knife 
as let the smack sail and leave me here.” 

As he spoke, Morna’s face grew^ whiter, for she knev/ 
how^ true his words were. Since the charm had not suc- 
ceeded, and since the famine seemed coming, the popula- 
tion w^ere each day growing more desperate ; and noting 
this, she too had sometimes began to fear that Bisson’s life 
might be in some jeopardy. 


THE DARK COLLEEN. 


1 66 

When he paused, she looked into his face. His blue 
eyes gleaming with passionate light, confidently returned 
her gaze ; his features, fair and unclouded, reflected the 
truthful expression of hers. Quickly she put her hands in 
his and whispered gently, 

“ I will go, yes, I will go ! 

A sound of distant voices presently struck upon Morna’s 
ear, and she knew that her father was bringing up the sail- 
ors from the smack. Releasing her husband’s hands, she 
turned her face aside. 

“ My father will be dull and sad when 1 am gone away ! ” 
she said. 

And Bisson answered, 

“ Little one, you should say nothing at all to him, since 
it is only for a little while. In a year, a month, soon, very 
soon, I will bring you back to see him, and all will be well.” 

To this Morna made no reply, but she looked at him 
with gentle reproach in her eyes ; then hearing the voices 
grow louder, she hastened from the kitchen to her room. 

Bisson crossing the threshold, saluted the approaching 
figures with unruffled serenity. 

“ The sky is looking clear, ” he said, “ and the wind is 
blowing from a good quarter. If it continues so, we shall 
have a fair run ! ” 

When Morna entered her room, she sat down upon her 
bed, and leaning her cheek upon her hand gazed vacantly 
before her. She heard the men enter the house— she heard 
her father call out her name, but she had no power to repl}^, 
for she felt paralyzed both in her mind and body. Mechan- 
ically she had been guided by Bisson’s will, and had 
consented to go away. Yet the struggle was hard. It 
pained her to think that he had asked her to steal away 
without a word — and though she had no intention of obey- 
ing him in this, she began to wonder whether or not she 
had done right when she had consented to go at all. Yet 
Eagle Island would be dreary indeed to her if Captain 
Bisson went away. Besides, she was his wife, and she had 
been early imbued with the Celtic idea of wifely duty, which 
made her feel bound to follow her liege lord wherever he 
might wander. Yes, she must leave Eagle Island and all 
her kin, though it was so hard to go. 


RE TROSPECTION. 


167 

The night had grown quite dark ; she could see nothing 
in the room, and the murmuring of the voices had ceased. 
Dressed as she was, she cast herself down upon the bed 
and tried to rest. 

Sleep would not come to her ; she closed her eyes, and 
the picture of her father sitting at home alone passed before 
her vision, while the thought of her journey, and the new 
home which she would find far away, made her sick at heart. 
She felt feverish and hysterical ; so at length she rose, lit 
her candle, and passed out into the kitchen. There lay her 
father sleeping sound. For a moment she stood looking 
at him ; then, drawing near, and stealing her arms about 
his neck, she burst into sobs and tears. 

The passionate embrace and the loud sobs awakened 
Dunroon, and he stared half-dazed into her face. But she, 
clinging closer, cried, 

“ Do not send me away — I am afraid ! ” And Dunroon, 
still half conscious, clasped his arms about her and soothed 
her to rest. 

A few hours later, when the sun was rising slowly, and 
the bright daylight flooded the room, Morna, gently with- 
drawing from her father’s embrace, left him sleeping on the 
bed and stole from the house. 

It was a cold, clear morning ; the peat smoke issued 
in long straight lines from the huts, and the ground was 
very hard underfoot. Passing from the house, and gently 
closing the door behind her, Morna entered the cow-house 
where she found ‘a couple of cows awaiting her. She took 
the milking-pail and milked them, then patting them on 
the neck she turned them out. Emerging again into the 
open air, she looked with strange yearning at the hills and 
the sea, , 

Never before, since she was a little child, had the 
island appeared to her so strangely beautiful as now. For 
the bright red sun was rising up from the ocean, and the 
jagged peaks of the far-off hills, blackened by distance and 
half concealed in mist, were relieved by the brightness of 
the sky. Above the cliffs she saw the white gulls hover- • 
ing, and she heard the voice of the sea coming in upon the 
shore. 

As she stood looking around, her eyes grew dim, for 


THE DARK COLLEEK. 


1 65 

lUe thought of going away had endeared to her all that 
remained on Eagle Island. The hills, the cliffs, the birds 
of the air, the beasts in the field, the little thatched huts 
on the dim hillsides, all brought to her sweet memories 
from the past, and quite unconsciously filled her soul with 
strange forebodings concerning that other life which was 
so soon to come. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

FAREWELL. 

A VOICE sounding close beside her, aroused her from 
her dream, and looking round she saw her father. 
What is it that’s troubling you, m3' colleen diibli ? ” lie 
asked, as Morna turned her eyes away. “ Is it because 
the Frenchman is going away?” 

But Morna was silent, and after a time her father spoke 
again. 

“ ’Tis little good that grief will bring you, Morna, as- 
tore ! Sure, I’m thinking ’twould be better for us all this 
day if you had left him asleep where you found him on 
yonder shore. Before he came, we had prosperity and 
liappiness — but since, what has it been ? nothing but wail- 
ing and moaning, and signs of a famine at hand. He 
brought evil spirits to the place along with him ; let us 
pray to the Holy Mother that he will take them away ! 

But Morna, turning her white face to his, said softly, 

O, father, do not talk like that of him, since — oh ! 
Mother of God forgive me — he is my husband ! ’’ 

Slowly, passionately the words were uttered. Dunroon, 
making no reply, but stunned by her words, stared wildly 
a.t his child, who, trembling now in terror at his anger, 
]fity for his pain, hurriedly continued, 

“Three weeks ago we were married by Father IMo}’, 
up in the little chapel beyond, and I said no word of it 
at all — because I was afraid. You were all against him, 
aird I thought if you knew, you would send him away. I 


FAREWELL. 


169 

did wrong, yes, I know I did wrong — and I am to blame I " 
And then, seeing his eyes grow wild, a strange look of 
horror and anger pass over his face, she fell trembling at 
his feet. “ O, father, forgive me ! ” she cried, “ for the 
sake of my mother — of all that is past and gone — do not 
look at me like that — I have sinned, but you will not keep 
your anger against me — forgive me, before I go ! ” 

Half an hour afterwards Dunroon was holding his 
daughter’s hands and looking into her face. The storm of 
anger had passed away, but there was a heavy look of pain 
upon his face. 

“ The young birds when their wings are grown, fly away 
from their nest,” he said in Irish, “and the young seals 
creep out of their dark caves into the sea, and why wouldn't 
you go too. But sure you’ll never forget your old home, 
7navourneen., and if trouble comes, you will come back.” 

There was a deep ring of sorrow in his voice, but he 
knew that rejrrets were useless. He must lose his child — 
she had chosen her fate and she must go ; for on Eagle Is- 
land the marriage laws were stringent. When a woman 
was wed she passed from old associations, broke old ties 
as surely as if they had never been. Morna had wed the 
Erenchman — henceforth her life must mingle with his life 
— and Dunroon must be content. So he looked calmly but 
fondly into her eyes, and she pressing her arms around his 
neck cried as if her heart would break. 

Late that night there gathered upon the shore of Eagle 
Island a wild crowd of men, women and children. During 
tim day the news had spread that Morna was to leave her 
home, and when the evening had closed in, the population 
had left their huts and gone down to the sea-shore. The 
deserted cabins lay black against the blackened hills, and 
there were no people within. There was silence on the 
earth and in the air, broken only by the soft moaning of 
the sea. Presently several figures, emerging from the dark- 
ness, passed through the crowd on to the shore ; among 
them came Morna, holding her father’s hand in hers. She 
was wrapt in a long black cloak, the hood of which was 
drawn over her head. As she passed silently from the 
heather to the shore, there was a terrible wailing in the air 
from a hundred human voices, and the crowd falling upon 


THE DARK COLLEEN. 


170 

their knees offered up their prayers to the Blessed Lady 
for the safety of the colleen who was going away. 

Apart from them all, alone, unnoted by any, stood Truagh 
O’More. His tortured face was turned towards the ocean, 
but he neither moved nor spoke. Morna, turning to the 
crowd and stretching forth her hands in silent farewell, saw 
the white face turned now to hers, and approaching Truagh 
she clasped her arms about his neck and kissed his check. 

“ We have been very happy, Truagh V’ she said in Irish, 
‘‘ and if I have ever been unkind, forget it when I am gone 
away P 

Truagh did not answer her. A wild light illuminated 
his face, then passed away. 

Again the “keening” began, filling the air and resound- 
ing strangely through the cliffs. With a wild moan Morna 
threw herself into her father’s arms and sobbed aloud. At 
last Captain Bisson, out of patience with the savage cus- 
toms of this savage race, put his arms about his wife and 
hurried her away. 

When the last trace of the smack had disappeared, and 
before them black and desolate stretched the sea, the 
islanders dispersed, and Dunroon turning from the beach 
walked again up towards his home. The night seemed 
blacker to him now, the wind felt more chilly, and the hills 
looked very desolate ; but most desolate of all seemed his 
house, when pushing open the door he found it empty. 
Empty bottle and glasses stood upon the table, and the 
ashes of the ffre had turned quite white upon the hearth. 
But he closed up the door and the windows, cleared away 
the drinking vessels, blew up the fi] e into a bright blaze, 
and then sitting down upon the hearth smoked his jDipe in 
silence. 

* -iff * # * * 

In the middle of that night, when the smack running 
before a fair wind was carrying Morna farther and farther 
from Eagle Island, when the islanders had sought their rest 
and Dunroon sat smoking his pipe on his deserted hearth, 
a man was moving through the darkness, toiling wearily 
over the solitary hills. Very slowly he went along, for the 
darkness was dense and the ground uneven. He walked 
on until he reached the little chapel of Our Lady which 


7'JVO ROSES. 


171 


Stood on the hillside ; then he pushed open the dilapidated 
door and entered in. It was a desolate looking building ; 
its walls were crumbling with decay and saturated with the 
rain, the air within felt damp and chilly, and when the door 
was pushed back upon its hinges they grated with rust. 
Inside the chapel it was pitch dark, so that the man had 
to put forth his hands to feel his way. 

In the centre of the floor he paused, and as he did so 
the clouds which covered the sky momentarily drifted apart 
and the moon’s rays fell through the windows of the chapel 
— across the floor — and they lit up the face and figure of 
Truagh O’More. 

Taking advantage of the light which was thus afforded 
him, Truagh made his way across the floor to the altar 
steps, and paused before a figure of the Virgin rudely 
carved in wood which stood within the altar rail. Here, 
falling upon his knees, he drew from his pocket a rosary 
of brawn wooden beads and laid them at the feet of the 
figure. Then he bowed his head, clasped together his 
hands and inwardly prayed for the safety and welfare of 
Morna Dunroon. As he ceased, the moon was obscured 
again by the drifting clouds, the wind wailed in the belfry, 
the owl hooted from the crags, and Truagh rose to his feet 
again and departed. He had made his intercession — he 
was needed no more. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 


TWO ROSES. 


AWN is breaking over Bernise. Coldly the light falls 



LJ upon streets as cold and cheerless, for most of the 
inhabitants lie wrapt in sleep, and the first frost of autumn 
has whitened all the land. The walks are quite deserted, 
the shop doors all closed, the windows shuttered and 
secured by strong iron bands. On either side of the broad 
streets rise up sleepily staring buildings of fiery red brick 
streaked here and there with white, and over the curtained 
windows the slated roofs project like heavy lids blinking 


172 


THE DARK COLLEEN. 


towards the white pavement below. All is so neat and 
clean, so civilized, 3'et it seems to weary the eye. 

The glaring houses look bran-new, the broad streets 
are clean almost to chalkiness, the Government roads lead- 
ing away from the town are straight as ruled lines, and 
enclosed by trimly dipt hedges and little trees green as the 
greenest trees to be found in a. wooden Noah’s Ark pro- 
cured fro:.n a toy-shop. Everywhere, indeed, is nothing 
but the deepest green, the brightest red ; so decided and 
glaring, they seem to be newly painted with fresh paints 
for a child’s to}'-box. A small range of hills, rising to the 
right of the town, is covered with emerald grass, frosted 
over with a gossamer film of frozen dew, and the trees 
partie.lly stripped of their summer foliage, stretch their 
branches above masses of fallen leaves of bright burnished 
brown. 

On the top of one of these hills, approached from the 
town by a straight grassy footpath, stands with its glitter- 
ing spire tow^ering high above the trees the little chapel, 
surrounded by a bright little graveyard, encircled in its 
turn by a white-washed stone w^all with a great gilded gate. 
Here the graves are ranged in set rows, like rows of loz- 
enges, most of them adorned with staring white head-stones, 
and decorated with artificial flowers ; in some of the tombs 
are little glass boxes, filled with souvenirs — tiny new shoes, 
rosaries' of bright gilt beads, crosses and wreaths of snow- 
white immortelles ; and the light falling upon the green 
sward illuminates the brightly painted windows of the 
chapel, and the neatly-wrought inscriptions on the tombs. 

Hither, in obedience to the clear ringing of the chapel- 
bell, the inhabitants of Bernise congregate to hear the 
early mass and to worship the good God, and here on 
Chri:itmas night the priests of the town dressed in theat- 
rical finery congregate together, and the mo’.iks scatter in- 
cense, and the choristers chant, for a well-rehearsed per- 
formance of midnight mass. 

To the left of the town the landscape, stretching in one 
vast uat, is cutup into squares, through the centre of which 
flow.' a broad canal. On the canal lie, or slowly advance, 
great barges, painted too like toys, and drawn by fat little 
hoises; and on the banks arc docks of colored pleasure 


TJVO A^OSJrS. 


173 


boats ready for hire. Dotted here and there about the 
valley are red brick buildings, bright, glaring, and sleepy- 
lidded as those which compose the town, but surrounded 
by rings of toy-trees very long in the stems and very round 
at the top. And near to one of these dwellings, on a 
fresh clipped grass sward which runs down to the waters 
of the canal, stands Morna Bisson. 

Changed, as her surroundings are changed. Her feet 
are encased now in dark blue stockings and pretty leather 
shoes ; the outlines of her figure are closely marked by an 
embroidered bodice, a colored silk kerchief covers her 
neck, and her black hair is quite concealed by a white mus- 
lin Normandy cap, the starched ends of which were tied 
in a large bow on her neck, and then fall gracefully over 
her shoulders. Her face is altered too, more saddened 
and madonna-like, but not less pretty ; her dark eyes have 
a strangely pensive expression, and there is a new droop- 
ing about the edges of her mouth. She stands in her old 
attitude with her hands clasped before her, her eyes fixed 
on the water in a half-waking dream. 

As the day advances there begins the stir of life. The 
smoke issues in a straight mathematical line from the 
chimneys ; the frilled blinds of the windows are slowly 
opened one by one ; here and there a red night-capped 
head is popped out of the windows, while sleepy eyes take 
a survey of the quiet street — then the heads disappear 
again. Frenchmen in blue blouses emerge yawning from 
the doorways, and begin slowly to pull down the shutters 
from the shop windows, sabots begin to rattle along the 
pavement, and charrettes^ drawn by mules and loaded with 
market produce, rattle merrily over the paving stones on 
their way to Hantour, a seaport and market town lying just 
five 'miles distant. Presently, parties of young grisettes 
pass along the pavement, laughing gaily and chattering in 
a broad Norman patois, and casting thrilling glances over 
their shoulders at the indolent masses of flesh and blood, 
who are either pulling down the shutters, or making their 
way to the door of the nearest cabaret, there to read the 
J^etit yoiinial awA sip their morning beverage of cafe noir. 

As the day advances, the bright crowd increases, pass- 
ing in a thin stream up and down the narrow streets form- 


174 


THE~ DARK COLLEEK. 


ing the village of Bernise ; and the variegated colors of 
the houses and the people are heightened by the rays of 
the sun. On the blue blouses of the men, the red and 
blue hoods and white caps of the women, the flowing 
black robes of the sisters of mercy, and the black soutanes 
of the priests, the sun rays shine and the shadows fall. It 
does not seem like life — it looks so pretty, so toy-like, and 
so bright. 

Presently a party of blue-eyed German lads, in gold- 
braided caps, pass along, and stationing themselves at an 
open cafe' door, blow into their instruments and add their 
music to the noise of the hurrying people. 

And Morna still standing on the banks of the canal, 
hears the clatter of the sabots, sees the smoke quietly as- 
cending from the chimneys ; then, with one last quiet look 
at the water, she turns away, walks slowly along a narrow 
foot-path leading from the canal up into the town, and 
treading the pavement like the rest, she too mingles with 
the people. 

Around her the faces pass like the ever-changing rip- 
ples of a river, but she keeps her eyes fixed upon the 
ground, and passes on unnoting and unnoted, until at 
length she pauses before a small red brick building in the 
middle of one of the busiest streets of Bernise. The door 
is open ; crossing the threshold, Morna stands in a long- 
narrow hall, the oaken floor of which, polished brightly 
and slippery as ice, is covered here and there with bright 
green woollen mats. There are several doors opening 
out of this hall ; Morna turns the handle of one upon her 
right and enters. It is a pretty little room, and tolerably 
well-furnished. Here again the floor is of dark oak, very 
brightly polished and very slippery, but partly covered 
with brig'it red mats. The beams are of polished oak 
also, and the furniture is dark oak and red cotton velvet. 
A long, low French window commands a view of the street. 
In the middle of the room a small oaken table is spread 
for breakfast, and close beside, reclining in an easy chair, 
daintily pulling at a bunch of grapes which he holds in his 
hand, is Captain Bisson. 

Changed, too, as Morna is changed. His powerful 
limbs are clad now in the finest of grev cloth ; his golden 


TWO ROSES. 


175 


hair is carefully dressed, his flaxen mustache shines soft 
as silk : on his white hands glitter several rings, and a 
faint, sickly perfume clings about his dress. When the 
door opens and Morn a enters, he turns his head, and the 
blue eyes which rest upon her have lost none of their 
brightness. 

As Morna returns his gaze she glances at his face and 
figure. Altliough she has observed the gradual process of 
the change, she can scarce believe this to be the man 
whom she found on the lonely Island shore. Their eyes 
meet, and he turns his head away again without a word. 
Crossing the floor quickly, Morna kneels 'beside his chair 
and turns her face to his. He looks down upon her, not 
with the old beaming smile, but with a graver and perhaps 
less pleasant expression on his face, as he asks, 

“ Well, Morna, what is it ? ” 

The tone and the words chill her ; she pauses before 
she replies. 

“ I have been down yonder looking at the river ; but, 
sure, his not like looking at the sea. I thought, maybe, 
you might take me there to-day.” 

“ Where ? ” he asks again, half indifferent, half endur- 
ing. 

To the sea — just to get one sight of the sa:* water ! ” 

His fair features cloud, his lip curls*slightly. He rises 
from his seat, lights a cigar, draws on his gloves, and lifts 
his hat. Then he turns to her again. 

“It will do you more good to take your breakfast, my 
dear,” he says, with a cold smile. “ You are looking pale, 
and it is from fasting, perhaps ; as for myself, why look 
you, I shall be busy and cannot spare the time ! ” 

Resting his cigar upon the table, he fastens his gloves ; 
then resuming it again, and smil ng loleasantly, he passes 
from the room. 

And Morna, standing there, watches him quietly with- 
out a word ; but as the door closes behind him, she sinks ' 
into the phair which he has left, and resting her cheek 
upon her hand, gazes vacantly at the window across which 
he passes like a shadow, not once turning his head. 

Meantime, Bisson having gained the street makes his 
way to the coach-office where the morning diligence stands 


THE DARK COLLEEN. 


176 

ready for starting. He steps in, the driver cracks his whip, 
the conductor blows his horn, and the vehicle rolls away 
towards Hantour. For the town lies five miles distant, 
and Bisson does not affect walking along dusty country 
roads. He prefers to keep his body cool, his boots clean, 
to lounge back on the well-padded seats of the diligence 
and survey the country through dusty panes of glass. He 
is the only passenger to-day, so he lies back and enjoys 
the fragrance of his cigar, until the vehicle has passed out 
of the country lanes and the conductor blows his horn 
again as it rattles into the busy town of Hantour. Here 
he dismounts, pays his fare, and pursues his way on foot 
about a hundred yards along the main street, until he 
stands before an open door, that of a little cafe. 

A pretty little building, bright, and clean, and cool. 
The floor is strewn with sand, and small round tables, com- 
posed of clean marble slabs supported by iron figures, 
stand about ; around these lounge several men, having the 
appearance of small tradesmen or shipping-clerks, some 
reading the morning paper, others playing dominoes or 
drinking coffee ; — most of them have their eyes fixed upon 
a figure which flits about from one group to another, dif- 
fusing brightness and pleasantness as she goes. 

It is the figure of a young girl. She wears the short 
petticoats of the Normandy peasant, but displays beneath, a 
pair of small feet encased in striped stockings, and high- 
heeled buckled shoes. Her dress, which fits closely to her 
figure, is trimmed here and there with colored ribbons 
and white lace, and on her head, above a mass of hair glit- 
tering like golddust, she wears instead of tlie plain muslin 
Normandy cap, a dainty little structure of lace and ribbon. 
A pretty white muslin apron, accommodated wath two tolera- 
bly large pockets is fastened before her, and into these 
pockets her hands constantly disappear as she picks up 
the coins from the tables around. Her face is fair as 
her figure. If her nose is a little too thin it is otherwise 
faultless ; although her mouth has a tendency to droop 
at the edges, she can nevertheless curl it up into the 
most bewitching of smiles ; and when she shrugs her pretty 
shoulders, turns out the palms of her finely formed hands 
and half drooping her eyelids smiles so mischievously in 


EUFHI^ASIE MOJVIER. 


177 


your face, you are apt to forget, so pretty is the picture, 
that those smiles are shed universally on one and all, on 
young and old, on anyone, in fact, who with money in his 
pocket chooses to push open the glass doors of the cafe 
and enter in. 

She passes on now from table to table gathering up 
the coins and slipping them into the pockets cf her apron, 
and smiling brightly into the faees of those who sit around, 
but when Captain Bisson enters, she throws up her head 
and stretches forth both her hands. 

“ Ah, ]\rsieur ! I am charmed ! ” she exelaims, in 
Freneh, in a high toned though pleasant voiee, while Bis- 
son’s faee lightens up with its old smile, and his blue eyes 
flash softly into hers. “ I did not look for you so early, 
but since you have eome it is well. In an hour I go to 
Latour on business for poor Maman, and if you are disen- 
gaged you may aeeompany me ; it is weary to walk alone.” 

She glanees from beneath her drooping lids into his 
face, and he, smiling well-pleased, nods assent. 


CHAPTER XXVIII, 


EUPHRASIE MONIER 


OR many months after they had settled down in France, 



A Captain Bisson’s affection for Morna had remained 
unchanged. There was about the simple Irish girl an 
undeniable attraction which civilization only heightened. 
When Bisson saw her habited in civilized guise, in the em- 
broidered bodice and spotted kerchief, the high-heeled 
shoes and muslin cap of the Normandy girls, he was en- 
chanted again, and Morna flushed delighted before his 
admiring gaze. His love was like a gourmet’s palate, ever 
requiring new and subtle flavors to keep it in tone. 
Hitherto he had been fickle, as we have shown ; but now 
the case seemed quite different, and in his delight at having 
found so eligible a mate, he altogether forgot the savage 


THE DARK COLLEEN. 


178 

Stock from which she sprung. Despite all this, Bisson had 
no possible intention of bruiting his good news abroad, and 
holding up his beautiful bride foriDublic admiration. Such 
conduct would have been fitted only for feeble-minded 
fools, not for a sagacious far-seeing soul like Emile Bisson. 
If he had had a bonne fortune^ who could possibly rejoice 
in it like himself.? Accordingly he kept his secret locked 
in his own breast. 

Leaving his bride comfortably housed in Bernise, a 
little Norman village which he had often visited before, 
but which he knew contained none of his friends, he had 
after a short time proceeded alone to Hantour, presented 
himself at the insurance office, told his tale with as many 
reservations and deviations from the truth as he chose, and 
after considerable legal fighting received a heavy cheque 
for the unfortunate loss of the “ Hortense.” His sudden 
appearance in Hantour caused some consternation amongst 
his circle of acquaintances, for so long a time had elapsed 
since tidings had been heard of him, that it was generally 
believed that he had shared the fate of his crew and cargo. 
Many as were the inquiries that were made of him, and 
often as he repeated his adventures, he never once so far 
forgot himself as to mention the name of his wife. At 
each interview he congratulated himself on his wonderful 
discretion. 

After as short an absence as possible, he again returned 
to Bernise, and found Morna anxious and ill at ease. No 
sooner had Bisson left her, than the girl felt like one sud- 
denly cast adrift in a desert land ; for the speech of these 
people she could not understand, their habits and customs 
were foreign to her, and instead of having about her the 
free hills and the sea, she looked upon nothing but straight 
white streets and strange faces. It was all so different to 
Eagle Island that she felt bewildered, like one suddenly 
transported into some mystic land. The pretty chattering 
French girls, in their white caps and sabots^ the French- 
men with their blue blouses, round fat faces and thick 
mustaches, belonged to a species of humanity quite un- 
known, quite undreamed of, on the shores of Eagle Island, 

And this was her husband’s land ! 

Beautiful as he was ; but oh, so strange and foreign to 


E UP HR AS IE HOMER 


179 


her that she could not feel reconciled. She wished, ar- 
dently wished, that he had not left her there alone ; — and 
when at length Bisson returned to her he too seemed so 
much changed, that Moriia looked at him strangely and 
felt almost afraid to claim his love. For the old lisher- 
man's garb in which she had known him had been cast 
aside and his native costume assumed, his white hands 
glittered with rings and his feet were encased in the neatest 
of kid boots ; his golden hair was clipped and brushed,- 
and his soft mustache shone like silk. If he looked hand- 
some before, unquestionably he was handsomer now, and 
as Morna gazed at him, half in admiration, half in fear, the 
white hands were held coaxingiy toward her, the old superb 
smile came into his face, and the voice rang out with its 
old sweetness in her ears as he clasped lier fondly to his 
breast. 

Bisson was very much in love, and Morna was very 
happy, save now and then when wandering thoughts would 
travel back to Eagle Islrmd, when she thought of her fa- 
ther, of Truagh, and all those whom she had left behind — 
then, indeed, a cloud came over her happiness wliich was 
only reinoved when she remembered that Bisson had prom- 
ised to take her back to them very soon. 

So the lime passed on until the foreign place and the 
foreign ways grew pretty familiar to her, and when Bisson 
left her, as he sometimes did to go to Hantour and look to 
his affairs, she was sufficiently reconciled and pleased to 
stay. 

Yet, after all, to live alone in a narrow^ street in a little 
French town, with no one to speak to save the master of 
one’s body, is not altogether congenial to a loving spirit ; 
and Morna, who, although she had been bred on a lonely 
island, had by no means dragged out a solitary existence, 
began to think it very strange that she should be so con- 
stantly kept from communion with the outer v.'orld. Could 
it be that her husband had no friends, no relations t and 
if he had, why was she not permitted to see them? Un- 
skilled as she was in the common usages of the lives of 
civilized beings like Captain Bisson, she fancied that he 
could liavc no ulterior motive in keeping her thus apart ; 
and accordingly she had little scruple in mentioning her 


I So COLLEEN. 

wishes to him. But when she did so, Bisson colored un- 
comfortably, and his blue eyes grew rather piercing as he 
looked at her. 

“ Why is it that you ask me, Morna } ” 

“ Because I was thinking it to be strange that I did not 
see your friends.” 

“ Since you wish for them, you are not satisfied with 
me?” 

“Yes, indeed lam,” answered Morna quickly, pressing 
the white hand in both her own ; “ only it is lonely here 
sometimes when you are away.” 

Bisson smiled. It was but right that she should miss 
him, and he felt gratified at the innocent admission ; but 
he had no wish that the subject of his friends and relatives 
should be pursued. He had at present no intention what- 
ever of making her acquainted with them, and he had no 
desire that she should become disagreeably pressing on the 
subject. Much as he loved her, such a contingency as 
that might excite his ire ; so he bent above her, gave her 
that magical kiss of his, and the matter ended. 

Now Bisson was not a gentleman of independent means, 
and he could not settle down comfortably with his wife, as 
could his more fortunate neighbors on Eagle Island, even 
had he so wished — and he did not wish. A month or two 
with Morna had so far cooled the first flush of romantic 
ardor (though it had not killed his passion), that he had 
already begun to feel sometimes the tediousness of dwell- 
ing on land, and to long for his natural element, the sea. 

Despite his late disastrous adventure afloat, he was not 
ruined, as the insurance company had quite refunded his 
personal loss ; and, accordingly, with the moiety of the 
purchase-money of the “ Hortense ” still at his command, 
he presented himself to his late partner and made an offer 
which was readily accepted : this offer being that they 
should again cast together their means, become joiiU- 
owners of a vessel, which should again be named the “Hor- 
tense,” and be commanded of course by Captain Bisson. 

Having thus satisfactorily brought matters to a con- 
clusion, Bisson, for the time, almost forgot his bride, left 
her more and more to herself in the narrow streets of 
Bernise, and spent the greater part of his time in Hantour 


EUPHRASIE MONIER. i8i 

superintending the arrangements connected with the newly- 
acquired “ Horten se.” 

rt was during this time that he became acquainted with 
the young lady who kept the cafe. 

One morning, when he was leaving for Hantour, he 
saw, when still some yards from the diligence, that the 
vehicle was full, and that the conductor, gloved and 
buttoned ready for starting, was persistently refusing the 
solicitations of a young lady who was ardently begging for 
a seat as far as the town of Hantour. The young lady’s 
back was turned towards Bisson, and he saw from her 
figure that she was young and gracefully formed. Now 
Bisson, in order to make his journey secure, had, on the 
])revious night, engaged the coupe for himself, and remem- 
bering this, he conjured up all his politeness, and hurried 
forward to where the young girl stood. Fie cast aside the 
remnant of his cigar, and pulled off his hat. 

‘‘ If Mam’selle would be pleased to accept a seat in the 
coupe — ” he began, when suddenly the lady turned and 
faced him, and the two stood in mute amazement. 

“ Emile ! ” she said, and Bisson returned, 

“ Euphrasie ! ” 

'Fhe first flush of recognition being over, and the first 
words of greeting breathed, the familiar epithets of 
“ Emile ” and “ Euphrasie ” were discarded, and the more 
formal appellations of m’sieur and mam’selle adopted in- 
stead. 

The young lady placed her right hand in the delicately 
gloved palm of the captain, who handed her into the 
coupe, and then stepped in himself ; the driver cracked 
his whip, and the diligence rolled away along broad clear 
roads' enclosed by fresh green hedges, and over-shadowed 
by tall beech trees and broad spreading oaks. The 
branches waved as they rolled past, the grazing cow.s 
raised their heads and looked up, the farm-girls, laughing, 
blew kisses to the conductor, and the dogs barked furiously 
at the cracking driver’s whip. The broad long window 
enclosing the front of the conpd afforded the occupants 
an extensive view of the country around ; but Bisson saw 
it not, for his head was turned aside, and his blue eyes 
rested upon a fairer sigiit — the face of his companion. 


t 82 


THE DARK COLLEEN, 


Eiiphrasie Monier was decidedly pretty, and she was, 
moreover endowed with a piquant manner which was par- 
ticularly attractive. Although in the full flush of girlhood, 
in the soft spring-time of her youth and beauty, she had 
the charming coquetry of a mature woman. Her soft 
rounded cheeks, clear grey eyes shaded with long curved 
lashes, and bright golden hair, exhibited positive splendor 
in the full brightness of the morning sunlight; for she had 
not yet attained the age when paint and powder, padding 
and cosmetics, become the unavoidable accessories to a 
fair face and a rounded form. As Bisson looked with his 
critical eye, he inwardly confessed that the tournure of the 
figure before him was perfect, and he marvelled not a little 
that Euphrasie, his little playmate, should have developed 
into so pleasing a piece of humanity. 

For Euphrasie Monier and Emile Bisson had been 
lovers as children ; their parents had dwelt on separate 
stories beneath the same roof ; they had attended the same 
schools, and spent much of their spare time in each other’s 
company, until their lives had been suddenly cast asunder. 
Euphrasie, when only fifteen years of age, had removed 
with her parents from Hantour, and Bisson had fulfilled 
his natural longing and taken to the sea. Thus they had 
parted with a few tears, much pouting of rosy lips, and 
many regretful glances and wondrous sighs at the hard de- 
crees of fate ; Bisson carrying away a lock from the golden 
head of Euphrasie, and giving in return a clipping from 
his own abundant tresses. Even at this early stage of his 
existence the natural propensities of the soft-hearted sailor 
had begun to assert themselves, and while sitting by the 
side of Euphrasie, he had first rehearsed those pretty love 
speeches in which, during after years, he became so pro- 
ficient. 

Never since that time had they met ; scarcely had they 
heard the mention of each other’s names. Bisson, on his 
side, had cast off lliis dream as he had cast off many an- 
other ; with the memory of the child’s face, the golden 
lock clipped from her head had been forgotten and buried 
in the dusty recesses of the past; other and newer thoughts 
had filled the captain’s brain ; other and newer loves had 
sprung up, flowered, and faded, until the memory of the 


EUPHRASIE MONIER. 183 

pretty face and bright curly head of Euphrasie had passed 
almost entirely from his life. 

Thus it had been with Captain Bisson ; but with 
Euphrasie, who shall say? 

Did her hero live or not live — did her faded childish 
fancy spring up again in all its freshness as she glanced 
coquettishly into those sparkling blue eyes which shone so 
supremely upon her? Certain it is that her soft cheek 
blushed only so much as was becoming to her fair com- 
plexion, her eyelids drooped apparently more from 
coquetry than hidden emotion, and as she tossed her 
pretty head, and threw out her gay little musical laugh, 
there was no sign of tremor in her voice. 

Euphrasie had much to tell, and she told it with all the 
charming innocence of the girl of nineteen, mingled with 
the practised coquetry of the woman of thirty. For 
although she had now scarcely attained her twentieth year 
she was well matured in worldly wisdom, and fully initiated 
into all those little arts which seem to become the neces- 
sary embellishments of a pretty Frenchwoman’s life. 
During the few short years of her existence she had been 
soured by many a childish misfoitune, and had surmounted 
many a girlisli trial ; and to crown all, that ugly spectre 
“ poverty ” had dwelt in her mother’s house and brushed 
much of the innocence from her soul. Only a short time 
after their removal from Hantour her fatlier had died, and 
Euphrasie, the only child, had been left with her mother 
almost unprovided for, to breast thus helplessly the waters 
of life. Many were the ways and means which had been 
adopted to keep the wolf from the door, and many bitter 
tears had the child shed in secret over the harsh cruelty of 
fate. For Euphrasie, like a true Frenchwoman, possessed 
so keen a love of respectability and personal show, that 
povertv with its accessories was abhorrent to her. 

At length, however, her trials were in a measure ame- 
liorated. The widow Monier hit upon a way of living 
which seemed likely to succeed. Finding that all other 
means had failed them, the mother and daughter directed 
their steps again to the town of Hantour, invested tlieir 
tiny fortunes in renting and furnishing a cheap cafd 
situated in a pleasant spot in the town, far away from the 


tIT:e dark colleen. 


184 

dirty quays and clingy shipping wharves, and here pretty 
Euphrasie was stationed to pick up the coins from the 
small round tables, while' in a glass case portioned off 
from the room the mother sat grimly reticent, with a keen 
eye for the pence and her daughter’s honor. 

All this, or something of this, Bisson learned while the 
diligence rolled along through the now darkening shadows 
of the lanes, and in return he told his own story, or just so 
much of it as he chose to relate, while Euphrasie smiled 
and nodded and drooped her eyes. 

“ Ma foi^' she said at length, smiling gaily and tossing 
back the feathers in her hat, “why is it that you dwell in 
Bernise vdien your ship lies here in Hantour harbor ? ” 

Bisson laughed awkwardly and pulled his soft mus- 
tache ; then bending forward and resting his elbow u]:)on 
his knee, he looked up into her face. 

“ Because, Euphrasie — Mam’selle Monier — one grows 
weary with always looking at the sea. I get that on ship- 
board ; on land, look you, I like the trees and the green 
earth better.” 

“ You dwell alone ? ” 

Still looking into her face Bisson assented. Of what 
use would it have been to mention Morna. Euphrasie, 
this pretty little practical h'rench girl, would surely laugh 
at him for his pains. 

“ That is pleasant,” she said, again tossing her head 
and smiling brightly at him, “ pleasant for us, that is. In 
Elantour, look you, we have few friends now, for the 
women have sharp tongues, and the men, ah Dieu !" she 
shrugged her shapely slioulders, and pouted out her pretty 
lips, “ well the men have stupicl faces, and their souls cor- 
respond. Ah* they are hete ! one cannot associate with 
such ; it is too exasperating. But you wall come and see 
us, will you not ? ” she added softly, turning her smile full 
upon him, and archly raising her brows. 

Bisson nodded. 

“ I shall be enchanted, Mam’selle, but very soon I ex- 
pect to sail.” 

“Ah, but we shall look with interest for your return.” 

With a heavy rumbling sound the diligence rolled now 
into the streets of Hantour, and very soon, at a signal 


EUPHRASIE MOiYIER. 


1S5 

from Euphrasie, the driver pulled up beside the pavement 
before the door of a cafe, the window and glass door of 
which were lit up with gas. With a rustle of ribbons and 
an odor of scent which was pleasantly diffused about her 
dress, Euphrasie rose from her seat, and Bisson rising too 
held forth his neatly gloved hand. But the young lady 
turned aside. 

“We do not part here ! ’’ she said, “it is so long since 
one saw you, that you must come in ! ” and leaping lightly 
on to the pavement, she entered the cafe, without giving 
her companion time for a refusal. 

And, indeed, Bisson was not sorry that she had done 
so, since his inclination strongly accorded with her will. 
The sparkling beauty of the little French girl had already 
attracted his artistic eye, and he was by no means sorry 
that he should have an opportunity of examining it more 
closely. So without much ado he too leapt from the coupe 
and while the diligence rolled along down the street, fol- 
lowed his fair guide into the cafe. Then Euphrasie cried 
in her thrilling tones, 

“ Maman, maman, I bring with me an old friend. I 
bring Emile Bisson!” and turning to the captain, she 
waved her right hand towards the glass case where the old 
woman sat, as she added, “ You remember poor maman, 
M’sieur. Ah, you will find her changed as we all are ! ” 

Looking in the direction indicated by the wave of the 
girl’s hand, Bisson saw sitting behind the glass, with her 
face towards the comj^any, the mother of his youthful 
love. 

Madame Monier was scarcely more than fifty years 
old, but trouble had aged her prematurely. Beneath the 
powder and paint which lay thick upon her cheeks, the 
skin was shrivelled and brown ; and there were heavy 
wrinkles on her brow, beneath which looked out eyes 
which were still bright, perhaps owing to the occasional 
use of belladonna, and sharp as those of a hen harrier. 
Her ears, too, were still keen, especially when the clanging 
of pence was concerned, and her voice was strong, though 
shrill in tone. Her grey hair was hidden by a brown 
front, which was surmounted by a cap, or rather a handful 
of gauze and ribbon, constructed in the latest Paris fashion, 


r86 


TIIS DARK COLLEEX. 


and set archly on one side of her head. As Bisson stood 
smiling before her, she rose to her feet, fixed on her nose 
a pair of double gold-rimmed glasses, and seeming to look 
through him with those keen eyes of hers, held forth a 
shrivelled, bony hand, and in a shrill voice bade him wel- 
come. 

She was enchanted to meet M’sieur Bisson ; ah, truly 
he had developed into a fine man, as she had ever pre- 
dicted. Time had used him well ; but for herself, alas ! it 
had been bad, and for Euphrasie too, she, poor darling, hatl 
suffered, but had come through all her trials well I All of 
which eloquence Bisson answered with his usual tact and 
grace, and then moved to take his leave ; but this Madame 
would not allow. They were not in the habit of meeting 
old friends, and they could not part so soon ; and as 
Euphrasie (who, divested of her hat and cloak,. had ab- 
stractedly returned to her occupation of picking up coins 
from the marble tables) backed this request in her pretty 
winning way, Bisson soon yielded. 

Well, after all, he reflected, he had only a lonely room 
awaiting him in a lonely house, and as it was still very 
early, a few hours spent here would not be at all disagreeable 
to him \ so as, in Euphrasie’s eyes, business could not be 
neglected for pleasure, he took his seat at one of the little 
marble tables amidst the company in the cafe with 
Euphrasie for his occasional companion, and Madame 
always ready to take up the thread of the conversation 
when duty compelled her beautiful but decidedly practical 
child to move away. There he lingered, evidently well 
content, and not until the last remaining reveller had been 
thrust out, and Euphrasie made no effort to suppress her 
yawns, did he again offer, this time successfully, to take 
his departure.- 

“Truly, he is not as he was ; ” commented Euphrasie, 
when Bisson had departed, when the lights of the cafe 
were extinguished, and she sat with her mother in the little 
back parlor, slowly uncoiling her hair to prepare for rest, 
“he is bHe^ maman, like all the men ! ” 

“ But you admire him still, Euphrasie ? ” demanded 
Madame, peering questioningly into the girl’s face. 

Euphrasie did not reply. She continued to unbind her 


THE CAFE OF THE FLEUR-DE-LYS. iSj 

hair, and dreamily watched the gold threads slipping 
through her fingers. Then she rose, lit a candle and 
moved towards the door. 

“You are going to bed, Euphrasie.’” 

The girl yawned, and nodded her head. 

“ But 3’ou will cast these accounts for me before you 
go ? ” said Madame quickly ; “ they must be done to-night, 
and my eyes are weak by gas-light ! ” 

“ Then use your spectacles, maman ! ” returned Eu- 
phrasie, “ I am weary; ” and without more ado she departed 
to her bed-chamber leaving her parent to get through her 
work alone. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

THE CAFE OF THE FLEUR-DE-LYS. 

T he intimacy thus commenced, had continued with much 
warmth on both sides. 

Captain Bisson could not disguise from himself that his 
chance meeting with Euphrasie Monier, and the renewal of 
their acquaintance, had rendered his enforced residence in 
Hantour considerably more pleasant than it would other 
wise have been. When he was not lounging about the 
wharves superintending the arrangements connected with 
his new ship, it was pleasant for him to wander into the 

purer atmosphere of the Rue , and spend a few hours 

in the cafe of the Fleur-de-Lys, where Euphrasie presided. 
She, bright and sparkling, was almost always at her post, 
contentedly rattling the coins which weighed down her 
apron pockets, and ready to retail to him at second hand 
the gossip which was brought to her by the admiring clerks 
who frequented her abode. . 

It was not surprising, indeed, that Euphrasie’s cafe 
throve ; that deserting all other available places of amuse- 
ment, a goodly proportion of the male population of Han- 
tour strolled there day after day, night after night, quite 
content to deposit their money on the marble-topped tables, 


i88 


THE DARK COLLEEN. 


for the sake of the gratified smile which that feat never 
failed to draw from the lips of Euphrasie. Depending as 
she did for her sole support on male approbation, Euphra- 
sie had carefully studied all those little arts which are cal- 
culated to please and draw feeble-minded men from their 
less attractive but certainly less expensive firesides. 

In winter the little cafe was the warmest, in summer 
the coolest in Hantour. On each of the marble tables, 
polished to their brightest, stood clean packs of cards, dice 
boxes, doininoe boxes, and in an adjoining room was a 
billiard-table for general use. During the forenoon the 
cafe was almost empty, and occasionally under only the 
surveillance of Madame Monier herself. Euphrasie seldom 
appeared early in the day, but sitting in the little back par- 
lor put new ribbons to her caps and dresses, which Madame 
had set up to prepare for her half the night before. When 
evening had set in, however, when the street lamps were 
lit and the glass chandelier of the cafe' threw down its rays 
upon the heads which were congregating below, Euphrasie 
emerged like the butterfly in spring, beaming in her newest 
ribbons, her brightest colors, her face all dimples and smiles, 
and moved from group to group, diligently picking up the 
money as she went, never by any chance letting any escape 
her. In the most good-natured manner possible, she 
laughed and talked with her guests, and watched with some 
interest their amusements. Sometimes, indeed, she would 
join them ; but this was not often, never indeed, we must 
confess, unless a good stake was offered as a temptation. 
As the evening wore away, and she slipped coin after coin 
into the pockets of the apron until they became quite 
bulged, her good humor increased most miraculously, while 
from her little glass box, known as the treasury, Madame 
watched her with satisfaction marked in every lineament of 
her ancient face. 

And though this occupation of hers drew upon her head 
sundry uncharitable remarks from her sisterhood, Euphrasie 
could afford to smile and nod her golden head with the ut- 
most possible indifference. Being well versed in worldly 
wisdom, she knew, none better, that a woman who possesses 
the power of charming men cannot hope to charm women 
also ; so being a sensible girl, she reigned supreme in the 


THE CAFE OF THE FLEUR-DE-LYS, 189 

sphere allotted to her, ana never dreamed of mourning for 
that which she could not by any possibility obtain. 

It was little wonder that Captain Bisson, fond as he was 
of female loveliness and civilized creature-comforts, made 
Iris way regularly every evening to the cafe of the Fleur- 
de-Lys, and having the most comfortable seat in the room 
allotted to him, smoked his cigar and watched in half- 
dreamy pleasure the graceful movements of the girl. To 
his share fell Euphrasie’s brightest smiles, and when she 
was not otherwise engaged she would take a seat beside 
him, and prattle away in her shrill but well-modulated voice 
in a manner most likely to interest a person of his tastes. 

But such dreamy pleasures were not destined to last. 
Time sped on very quickly. His stay in Hantour had 
already extended considerably beyond the allotted time, 
and the arrangements connected with the new “ Hortense 
had already been completed more than a week. The ves- 
sel lay in Hantour harbor manned with her crew and 
loaded with her cargo, and only waiting the captain’s 
pleasure to sail. 

So one night, instead of repairing to the cafe' as usual, 
he went from the shipping wharf to his own rooms, and 
wrote to Morna to expect him home before sunset the next 
day. He must go to Bernise and bid the little one fare- 
well before he sailed. Ble would start by the early dili- 
gence so as to have a long day. He made his arrangements 
in all good faith, and had temptation not come in the way 
he would most certainly have carried them out. 

'Bhe next day, however, as he sat at breakfast, he re- 
ceived a pretty little pink missive highly perfumed, open- 
ing which he read as follows : — 

“ Make me your felicitations, M’sieur, — it is my birth- 
day. As we have few pleasures now, poor maman and I, 
we desire that you will come to the cafe this evening and 
take your supper with us. We have no attractions to of- 
fer you, dear M’sieur Bisson, but you are good, and in 
token of our former friendship you will, I am sure, spend 
a few hours this evening with two lonely women, my poor 
maman and I. 


“Euphrasie Monier,’ 


THE DARK COL LEEK. 

Bisson read the note over several times, then folded it 
neatly, put it again in its envelope, and finished his break- 
fast ; for although he was puzzled what to do, he saw no 
reason why he should continue fasting with good things 
standing before him. Had this request of Euphrasie’s 
come a? any other time, he would gladly have accepted it, 
but now — havino- written to Morna to expect him ere sun- 
set, what couldTie do? Well, the only thing to be done 
under the circumstances was to call at the cafe on his way 
to Bernise, and make his excuses to Euphrasie. So a few 
hours later, after he had finished his breakfast and smoked 
his cigar in comfort, he left his rooms and leisurely strolled 
along to the Fleur-de-Lys. 

But when, standing before Euphrasie, with his white 
hands outspread, he made his excuses, her face fell. She 
sighed prettily but sorrowfully, as she replied, 

“ Bien, M’sieur, attractions for you are greater else- 
where. I am content.” 

“ Not at all, Euphrasie,” exclaimed Bisson, gallantly, 
“ my greatest attraction is here, but it is business which 
takes me away.” 

“ To Bernise ? ” 

“ Assuredly.” 

She did not reply, but with a strangely significant smile 
turned away. 

Bisson walked to the door, but, turning, approached 
again. 

‘‘ Since you wish it, Euphrasie,” he said softly, “ and 
since it is your birthday, I will stay if only for a little while.” 

And she, inwardly laughing, kept him to his word. 

The cafe was closed rather earlier that night, and in 
the little back parlor gathered a very comfortable trio. 
Madame Monier sat close beside the bright blue and white 
china hearth, with a great white cat lying purring at her 
feet. Euphrasie moving busily about the polished floor, 
with her sweetest smile upon her face, her prettiest cap 
upon her head, presided over the feast with a nod and a 
laugh which made Bisson’s eyes sparkle. Corbleu I she 
was very pretty, this girl ! so dainty, so graceful and neat ! 
Bisson’s eyes were constantly turned to her face ; he could 
listen to nothing but the sweet ringing of her voice. 


THE CAFE OF THE FLEUR-DE-LYS. 


191 

So the evening wore away pleasantly and quickly 
enough, and not until the church-clock had chimed twelve 
did iaisson rise to go. Euphrasie put her hand into his 
with the prettiest gesture, and, looking up into his eves, 
begged that he would come again before he sailed ; where- 
upon he bent forward, and in token of their former friend- 
ship, kissed her on both her cheeks, after which he per- 
formed the same feat with Madame Monier, with as much 
gallantry if with less pleasure, and gracefully made his exit. 

Hurrying quickly to the coach-office, he found the last 
diligence starting, and stepping in, he ordered the con- 
ductor to set him down in his own street at Bernise. 

It was very late when the diligence rattled into the 
village ; the shops were all closed, the lights extinguished, 
and the streets quite deserted. 

Ma foi^" thought Bisson, “ Morna will be asleep — so 
I need not hasten ! ” 

Accordingly, after alighting from the vehicle, he lit a 
cigar and strolled leisurely enough along the streets until 
he reached his home. Before entering the house, he 
glanced at the window and saw that it was bright with gas- 
light ; then he applied his latch-key, crossed the hall, and 
opened the door of the sitting-room, when Morna, weary 
with waiting, trembling with anticipation, sprang with a 
joyful cry into his arms. 

As he looked into her pale face and heavy eyes, Bisson 
reproached himself, and anxious no doubt to make up for 
his late misconduct, put his arms around her and kissed 
her fondly. 

You look weary, 7na (7iie he said gently; ‘‘you 
should be at rest ! ” 

Morna raised her head, and still keeping close to his 
side, looked at him quietly. 

“ Sure, I could not rest,” she said, “ I looked for you 
at sunset, and now it is midnight. I thought you would 
never come ! ” 

Bisson smiled, and kissed her cheek. 

“I was detained, little one — it was unavoiaable. But 
you must not worry, that does no good ; and — it will spoil 
your beauty ! ” 

Morna smiled wearily. 


192 


THE DARK COLLEEH. 


“ Indeed, I shall not do so again now that I nave you ! ’’ 
she said. 

And Bisson had not the heart to tell her that she would 
lose him again so soon. 


CHAPTER XXX. 
th£ “hor tense.” 

TN the morning, Bisson’s mind had recovered its usual 
serenity. He knew that his avocation could not be 
neglected ; he knew also that the fact of his early depart- 
Lire must be made known to Morna ; so while sitting op- 
])osite to her at breakfast, he revealed to her the true state 
of things. To his amazement, she received the tidings with 
calmness, and, save for a slight trembling in her hands, 
appeared quite unmoved. When he finished with the an- 
nouncement “ and to-morrow, ma petite^ we sail ! ” she rose 
from her seat, knelt beside him, took his hand in both of 
hers and looked into his face. 

“ And before we return, you will take me to Eagle 
Island, will you not ? ” she asked. 

Take her to Eagle Island! Bisson was amazed, since 
he had no possible intention of taking her away at all ; slie 
being his wife, his slave, elevated by the possession of his 
love, but predestined, it seemed, to lead a life resembling 
solitary confinement — to be cooped up in Bernise while lie 
sailed the seas, and to receive him with open arms when- 
ever he chose to return to her. This was the life he had 
planned for her, but not the one she wished to adopt — for 
as he was silently looking at her, she said again, 

“ I should like to see my father and Truagh, and all 
those I have left on Eagle Island, and then I should be 
happier when I returned 1 ” 

Bisson shrugged his shoulders. 

‘‘ Ma foi, Morna,” he said, “ that cannot be. I sail to- 
morrow, but for you, little one, it is better to stay here I ” 
Morna opened her eyes in amazement. 

Stay here, inagh ? ’’ she said, '' indeed I could not ; 


THE “ F^OR TENSE: 


193 

it is so desolate when you are away, and you promised to 
take me alwa} s with you ! ” 

But Bisson returned, 

“ It is not fit that a woman should sail the seas — it is a 
hard life, and only men can brave it ; some other time you 
shall go home ! ” 

Morna looked at him silently, but by no means obedi- 
ently. On one point, indeed, she was determined — that he 
should not leave her there ; he had promised to take her 
afloat and she would go. She had spent weary months 
enougli, shut up alone ; already her cheeks had grown 
paler, her eyes more lustrous, and she pined for a sight of 
the salt water, and a glimpse of the hills again. She had 
never seen the sea since she first came from Eagle Island, 
and the constant confinement in the prim, narrow streets, 
had already grown very wearisome to her. The prospect 
of sailing away in the “ Hortense,” and, above all, of re- 
turning for a short time to her home, had elated her, and 
kept her from growing very sad while Bisson was away ; 
but now she felt as if all her visions had faded into gloom. 
Looking up into his face, she said decidedly, 

“ You must not leave me here. If you do not take me 
with you, I shall die ! ” 

As Bisson listened to her, his fair face clouded, for he 
disliked opposition of any kind, and he had not looked for 
it here. The decided way in which she spoke irritated 
him, and with some impatience, he exclaimed. 

“You cannot go, Morna. 1 have said so, and it must 
be ! ” 

Morna did not reply this time, but she turned sadly 
away ; while Bisson, throwing his head back upon his 
chair looked at her meditatively. And while he watched 
her, he thought seriously of what she had proposed. Ah, 
Dicu ! she was stupid to think that he would take her 
away ; and as to returning to the savage island — I 
civilization suited him better — he had not the remotest 
wish to go through his past adventures again. 

But as he sat there watching Morna, his thoughts took 
another turn. For the bright face of hAiphrasie Monier 
suddenly flashed before his sight, and instantly he re- 
flected that after all there might be some sense in what 

13 


THE DARK COLLEEN. 


194 

Morna had suggested — it would, perhaps, be better for 
him to take her away. If she remained in Bernise alone, 
the chances were that her existence might be made known 
to Euphrasie ; and as he himself had boldly informed that 
young lady that he dwelt alone, he did not wish to have 
the statement proved untrue. Yes, after all it would be 
better to take Morna away ! Rising from his seat, he soft- 
ly pinched her cheek. 

“ Since you wish it, 7na 7?iie, you shall go ! ” he said. 
“ I can refuse you nothing ! ” 

And Morna, knowing little of his secret thoughts, 
looked into liis face, and laughed delighted. 

So that very night, when the diligence rolled along 
through the streets of Bernise, Morna and Captain Bisson 
were seated inside on their way to Hantour. For the cap- 
tain had decided to make the journey under cover of the 
darkness. Why he had decided to act thus secretly, he 
did not fully explain even to himself; he only vaguely felt 
that it would be for the best. 

It was quite late, and ver}^ dark, when the diligence 
rolled into Hantour; and Captain Bisson, descending first, 
and then handing out Morna, took her hand upon his arm 
and led her away ; not up to the gay part of the town, 
where the shop-windows were brightly illuminated, and the 
glass doors of the cafes were swinging to and fro, but down 
through dingy streets, where the wind beat down thick 
smoke, and the voices of half-drunken sailors issued from 
low drinking dens. 

Then Morna saw the sea. 

The water was quite calm, and very black, save here 
and there where the glaring lamp-light streamed. A num- 
ber of ships lay in the bay, and others were drawn up be- 
side the dirty wharves and quays, to deposit their cargoes 
ashore. Down a long narrow quay Captain Bisson and 
Morna made their way, and descended a few slimy steps 
which led down to the water. The captain blew his 
whistle, and almost immediately a boat put off from one 
of the ships anchored in the harbor, and pulled towards 
the spot where they stood ; Bisson handed in Morna, then 
stepped in himself, addressed some words in French to the 
men, and the boat pulled away again. 


THE HORTEA'SE: 


195 

Sitting in the stern close to Bisson’s side, Morna lis- 
tened like one in a dream to the heavy splash of the oars, 
and the quiet washing of the water upon the shore. She 
did not notice that the mens’ eyes rested strangely upon 
her face, she had not observed the significant smile which 
passed over their faces as Bisson spoke to them ; she saw 
nothing but the sea, she felt nothing but the faint sea- 
breeze which fanned her cheek. As food is to a starving 
man, the water now seemed to her. The closeness of civ- 
ilized life had asphyxiated her ; she had not awakened to 
full consciousness till now. 

As the boat glided up beside the “ Hortense,” the 
splashing of the oars ceased ; the steps were let down, and 
a moment after Morna stood on the deck of the vessel — a 
brig of two hundred tons, newly built, and well fitted 
throughout. Taking her hand, Bisson led her to his cabin 
and there left her. 

“ I have business to settle before starting,” he said, 
softly. “ You will go to your rest, and not wait for me ; 
I may be late ! ” and then he remounted the steps, gave 
some orders on deck, and was gone. 

Morna sat on the red velvet cushions, with her eyes 
fixed upon the pretty carpet at her feet. A bright brass 
lamp swung from the roof of the cabin and cast its rays 
upon a large pier-glass, which was fixed in a panel on the 
side. When she saw this she rose to her feet, and looked 
at her reflection in the mirror. She was French now, 
thoroughly French from head to foot — so different from 
the girl who only a few months before had sailed from 
Eagle Island ! llien she had been a free, unsophisticated 
child of Nature; Jiow all about her, from the dainty white 
cap which covered her head to the leather shoes upon her 
feet, spoke of culture and civilization. She looked at her- 
self for a minute, then pulling from her head the v/hite 
muslin cap, and loosening the shining braids of hair, she 
wound about her head the old white scarf which she had 
brought from home. Presently she went on deck. The 
sailors were nearly all down in the forecastle ; but one 
man stood leaning against the fore-mast. Without notic- 
ing him, Morna went to the stern of the vessel, and lean- 
ing her arms upon the bulwark, gazed down into the sea. 


THE DARK COLLEEN. 


Very biacK the water looked, save here and there where it 
broke against the ship with phosphorescent sparkles. As 
she stood so, with her feet resting upon the deck, the sea 
breeze blowing in her face, and the washing of the water 
sounding in her ears, she felt that the old life had come 
back to her indeed — that the life of the past few months 
had been but a vague dream, which the first breath of the 
sea had dispelled. All the prim streets, the bright green 
fields and wooded hillsides of Bernise, faded away before 
the thought of the crags and the heather-clad hills of 
Eagle Island. Now she stood, as she had often done be^ 
fore, leaning upon a rock, and looking into the sea and 
listening to its music ; and as she lingered so the clouds 
drifted apart and the stars came out one by one, untd all 
the heavens were sparkling. The water heaved uneasily, 
and the lantern swung creaking from the foremast, and 
Morna stood dreaming still with the breath of the sea 
about her ; and the memory of Eagle Island crowding out 
all other memories, and not until she raised her head and 
looked around again did the vague dream fade away, and 
the reality of her i^resent life again force itself upon her. 
Around her, on every side, great ships lay moored upon 
the water, and far away, forming a semi-circle around the 
bay, glittered the bright lamp-lights of the town. 


CHAPTER XXXI. 


NICOLE LOUANDRE. 


T daybreak the “ Hortense ’’ weighed anchor ami 



sailed. The wind had risen during the night, and a 
stiff breeze blew on her quarter ; but the mate, as he 
turned his eyes to windward, prophesied half a gale before 
midday. Bisson, who, after .spending the evening with 
Euphrasie Monier, had come on board at midnight, still 
lay sleeping serenely in his berth, lulled by the gentle 
motion of the ship and the dreamy music of the sea. But 
Morna could not rest ; she lay listening to the wash of 
water at her side, the heavy tramp of feet overhead ; 


mco LE LO UA NDRE. 


197 


vaguely conscious that the wind which whistled so shrilly 
in the rigging was blowing her on towards her home. 
Back to the hills, the crags, and the sea ; back to all those 
faces which she loved so well, but which had already be- 
come in her mind vague shadowy recollections as of a 
dream. And though she knew that she must return again 
and leave them all behind her, she was content, feeling as 
she did that one glimpse of Eagle Island would make the 
world seem brighter for a time. 

When she rose and entered the little cabin it was broad 
day, and the place looked brighter, if possible, than it had 
done on the preceding night. A prim little captain's 
cabin, all gilt and polish, with velvet cushions for the 
captain to lounge on, and plenty of cigars for the captain 
to smoke ; well suited, in fact, to the dandified captain’s 
taste. Indeed, Morna soon discovered that although 
Bisson had supreme command of the ship, his powers 
were seldom shown save when he wished to work off his 
temper, and could find no other way of so doing. On 
ordinary and extraordinary occasions, the working of the 
ship and the care of the crew were left pretty much in the 
hands of Nicole Louandre, the mate, a man who had sailed 
with Bisson for many years, but who, luckily for himself, 
had remained disabled on shore during the voyage when 
the captain had succeeded in wrecking his ship on the 
reefs off Eagle Island. 

In appearance he was considerably opposed to the 
captain. He was a small-statured man, with a face dis- 
figured by one or two ugly scars. Over a heavily-wrinkled 
brow hung a fev; ringlets of jet black hair; his eyes were 
small and piercing, and his short broad teeth very closely 
set. He wore in all weather, wet or dry, frost or sunshine, 
a pair of coarse kersey trowsers and high water- boots, a 
kersey jacket, a thick woollen scarf wound about his neck, 
and on his head a small shiny cap, the peak of which was 
stuck over his left ear. 

It was a matter of wonder to Morna that Captain 
ibi.'^son, who she knew preferred to gaze upon fair faces 
and forms, could make so close a companion as he did of 
« ; so little favored by nature as Nicole Louandre. But 
if Bisson was fastidious, he was shrewd ; and he knew that 


THE DARK COLLEEN. 


198 

if Louandre could boast little of outward show, he pos- 
sessed great strength of character, and a good deal of 
quiet, grim determination, which \vas useful in keeping an 
unrul}^ crew in order. He was moreover, a skilful seaman, 
and fully able to take the command of the vessel, if at any 
time the indolent captain thought to remain on shore. 

When Morna went on deck, she found there a state of 
utter confusion. Great tarred ropes lay loosely about the 
decks, which were wet in places with the salt water, the 
sailors hurried to and fro, and the vessel pitched about 
upon the waves, making it unsafe to stand. Picking her 
^va;; through the loose ropes, she found a spot in the stern- 
sheets of the vessel, where she could sit free from all 
danger and undisturbed. There she remained quietly 
watching the sea, which broke into foam all round, until 
suddenly, as if drawn by some secret influence, she turned 
her head, and raising her eyes, met a pair of piercing black 
orbs which were fixed steadily upon hers. 

At the helm, a few yards from where she sat, and 
quietly smoking a black clay pipe, stood the mate, his 
scarred brows knit, his eyes fixed with strange intensity 
upon her face. When Morna raised her head, their eyes 
met; for a time she looked quietly -in the man’s face ; but 
at length, Louandre, removing his pipe from his mouth 
and drawing his sleeve across his lips, turned his eyes 
away. 

Late that night the wind fell. When part of the crew 
were in their hammocks, and Morna, wearied with the 
day’s excitement, lay sleeping in her berth, Captain Bisson, 
lighting a cigar, strolled leisurely up and down the deck. 
For some time he walked alone, but when he had got 
about half-way through his cigar, he was joined by the 
mate. Louandre was not a talkative man, nor at that 
moment was Bisson much inclined for conversation ; so 
silence was maintained between them for some time. At 
length, however, Louandre spoke in French. 

“ So that is the savage girl,” he said, “ the girl from 
Eagle Island ? ” 

Bisson nodded his head ; but as it was too dark for 
Louandre to see this, he puffed the smoke from his mouth 
and answered, 


OUT AT SEA. 


199 


“ Yes ! ” 

“ And you married her, did you say ? ” 

Bisson paused longer this time. He pulled at his 
mustache, emitted two clouds of smoke, thought of 
Euphrasie Monier, and quietly answered, 

“ Not at all ! ” 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

OUT AT SEA. 

T he life led on board the “ Hortense ” was not likely 
to raise Morna’s estimation of the class of humanity 
amongst which she was thrown. The men who composed 
the crew were a rough set, loose in their morals, coarse in 
their minds, and full of brute instincts which were unsub- 
dued by ordinary intelligence. Morna’s presence on board 
the ship was discussed among them in no very delicate 
manner ^ for they, judging their captain by themselves, 
and perhaps catching a hint of his conversations with Lou- 
andre concerning the girl, cast upon her good name reflec- 
tions by no means of the purest kind. Of all this, how- 
ever, Morna fortunately knew nothing. Strange to say, 
Bisson, who was fully alive to the impression which her 
position had created in tlie minds of the men, and who had 
in a measure been instrumental in producing it, said no- 
thing, but allowed that impression to remain. 

But if Morna’s gentle manners and soft refined face 
were insufficient to dispel the coarse suspicions w'hich arose 
in the minds of most of the crew of the “ Hortense,” they 
at least gained for her two champions. One of these wars 
Nicole Louandre, the mate, of whom we have already 
spoken, the other Andre' Neuil, the cook. 

Andre, surnamed on the “ Hortense ” “ la femme de 
cuisinef was a harmless little man enough, disliking storm 
and peril but delighting in calm weather and his omelettes. 
He had no vindictiveness in his disposition, and bore the 
rather cruel jokes of the men with tolerable good-nature. 
Well knowing that remonstrance would be vain, he received 


200 


THE DARK COLLEEN. 


uncomplainingly cuffs enough to have knocked his head to 
a jelly, contenting himself with rubbing vigorously at his 
hard and much belabored skull, and hastening down again 
to his cuisine to roast himself purple over a charcoal fire. 
Far from calling forth the consideration of the crew, this 
uncomplaining conduct seemed to make matters worse. 
Perhaps there was something in the simple face of Andre' 
which aroused these cruel instincts in his companions. 
Each day his troubles increased until they were suddenly 
brought to a climax. 

'I'he “ Hortense ” had been at sea a week, and had 
sailed out of sight of land. Morna spent most of her time 
on deck; for instead of luxuriating in the prim comfort of 
the captain’s cabin she preferred to sit on dirty decks, 
lumbered up with ropes, and to enjoy the salt breeze. 
Every morning when the breakfast was over she* left the 
captain to his cigar, and ascending the steps leading trom 
the cabin sat down in the stern sheets of the ship. So 
en wrapt was she in the thoughts of returning to her home, 
that she did not notice the insolent looks which the men 
cast upon her, nor did she observe that Louandre, who by 
some accident, generally happened to be standing near her, 
stared again and again into her face with a far too familiar 
look in his black eyes. She had noticed once or twice, 
when the ship had been tossing and walking was made 
difficult, that his hand had been the one which supported 
her, and one day indeed when the water had washed over 
her seat he had strolled forward, and procuring a coarse 
mat had thrown it down beside her. 

“ Sit there ! ” he had said, in a thick voice, as if he were 
addressing the men, and without a word Morna had obeyed 
him. But although the mate spoke English enough to be 
understood, Morna seldom exc hanged many words with him, 
that grim sullen manner of his being more calculated 
to inspire fear than any kind of confidence. 

One day when Morna sat as usual in the stern sheets of 
the ship, and Louandre was at the wheel, they were both 
startled by a loud explosion proceeding from the neigh- 
borhood of the cook’s galley, quickly followed by a hissing- 
sound and a human shriek. Two minutes later the cook, 
lialf blind, with his bristly hair singed and his face burned 


OUT AT SEA, 


2or 


black as a cinder, emerged, screaming and wringing his 
hands u|)on the deck. 

Of all the inflictions which Andre had endured on board 
the “ Hortense ” not one had been so severe as this. 
Reynard Gascone, an evil-looking sailor before the mast 
had that morning, in revenge for burnt bouillon,, placed in 
the grate some gunpowder, which, when Andre lit the fire, 
had exploded full into his face. When Morna saw the 
cook emerge in so deplorable a condition, she ran forward 
and eagerly inquired the cause of his misfortune. Instead 
of speaking, Andre at first moaned and cried piteously, and 
held his hands to his blackened face, but after a while he 
gave her a full explanation in a few broad broken English 
words. Meantime the men stood by staring and laughing, 
and Reynard Gascone came forward with a broad grin 
upon his freckled face, and roughly seized the cook by the 
arm. 

“ If the fire was hot, Andre, mon garz, the water is 
cool ! he said, in French ; then assisted by one or two of 
his companions, he rapidly slipt the noose of rope round 
Andre’s waist, and dragged him along the deck to the side 
of the vessel. 

If Andre disliked fire, he had a still greater dislike to 
being plunged into the mid ocean. When he saw the 
intention of the men he struggled desperately, clung tena- 
ciously to the rigging, and looked wildly around for assis- 
tance. There was none forthcoming. ]\Iorna stood look- 
ing on white with terror, but helpless and unheeded, and 
Nicole Louandre continued steering without once turning 
his eyes towards the men. Morna’s first thought was 
of Bisson. Quickly descending to the cabin she summoned 
him. 

“ It, is dreadful ! ” she said, “ it is a sin for which they 
should be punished. Sure he is half burnt, already and 
now they mean to put him into the sea. You cannot let 
them do that.” 

But Bisson was too indolent to move. He pulled his 
mustache, raised his eyebrows, and replied, 

‘‘ Corbleu I Morna, you are foolish ; they will not drown 
’him, for that would be murder, and — he deserves a bath 
for his screams I " 


202 


THE DARK COLLEEN. 


Morna lookecl at him, but he regardless of her presence, 
yawned wearily and half closed his blue eyes. But Morna 
said quickly. 

“ Sure you cannot mean that — come up and see. His 
face is burnt, and he is nearly blind, poor man, and when 
the salt water touches him, he will go mad.” 

Bisson smiled coldly, as he replied. 

“ He will cease that noise, you mean, Morna.; that is 
all ! ” . • 

Almost in the same light as he regarded the inhabi- 
tants of Eagle Island, did the aristocratic^ captain regard 
his crew. They could not feel as superior beings like 
himself, and they were entitled to little consideration. In 
short, Bisson was, like most of his class, perfectly obtuse 
to human suffering. Morna had seen some stray indica- 
tions of cruelty before, but he had never been so callous 
as to-day. She knew enough now to tell her that further 
expostulation would be of no avail, and with a strange, 
half-regretful look in her eyes, she turned from him and 
again ran up to the deck. 

The poor cook, exhausted now with pain and prolonged 
screaming, clung feebly to the bulwarks and cried for 
mercy; but in the hard faces of the men there was no 
relenting. They would have no more burnt bouillon^ they 
vowed ; and it was too good a joke to lose. Laughing 
and shouting, they had already raised him in their arms, 
in another minute he would have been plunged into the 
sea, when suddenly Morna bethought herself of Nicole 
Louandre. She turned and saw him standing idly beside 
the rigging now, grimly looking on. In a moment, she 
was before him. 

“ For God’s sake, stop them ! Do not let them do 
that ! ” 

Louandre who, as the men knew full well, would him- 
self have thought no more of torturing the cook than of 
eating his dinner, now stared into her face with that sul- 
len, grim look of his, and asked slowly, 

“ You want me to do it ? ” 

Morna nodded. 

“Yes!” 

“ Y ox you!'' 


' OUT AT SEA. 


203 


“ Yes, yes, for me ! ” she answered quickly. I can- 
not bear to see such things ! ” 

Louandre turned on his heel, and strode into the mid- 
dle of the group. He said nothing ; but his hand clenched, 
his teeth gnashed, and there came into his face such a 
savage light, that Morna began to tremble. 

Seizing the cook with one hand, he raised a clenched 
fist and struck Gascone a blow which laid him flat on his 
back and almost stunned him ; turning to those who stood 
around he administered one or two backhanded blows 
which stained his knuckles with blood ; meantime, he 
hissed out some words in French between his clenched 
teeth, and his black eyes glared viciously at the men. 
Casting the cook from him, he gave him a good kick and 
a malediction, with the advice that he had better return 
to his galley, which the little man did without loss of 
time. When Gascone, who was a full foot taller than the 
mate, regained his legs, Louandre, gnashing his teeth and 
raising his fist, would have struck again. But the other 
shrunk away, and after getting a safe distance, cried, 

“ Sacre, Louandre, have you lost your senses to take 
the part of a brute like that ” 

A threatening flame flashed out of Louandre’s eyes, 
and his hand clenched again. Gascone, catching the 
ominous signs, thought it better to laugh half-indifferently 
and descend to safer regions. 

A few paces from the scene of combat stood Morna, 
pale and trembling, half frightened now at what she had 
done, for the mate looked now like some wild beast, 
gnashing its teeth in fury. When leaving the men he 
strode back to the stern, Morna held forth her hands to 
thank him, but he, glancing grimly in her face, quietly 
resumed his work. 

Yet late that evening, when Morna sat by the cook’s 
berth applying remedies to his burnt face, Nicole Louan- 
dre, taking his last turn on deck, pondered very much on 
what Bisson had told him the night succeeding the one 
on which Morna had first come on board the “ Hortense.’’ 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 


A GLIMPSE OF HOME 


IE next day the breeze freshened and the “ Hor- 



-L tense ” ran merrily on her way. The little cook, 
unable to attend to his duties, but tolerably free from pain, 
lay in his berth, blessing Morna in the name of all his 
culinary saints. Bisson, buttoned up to the throat, with 
the fresh breeze blowing in his face, stood upon the deck 
and cursed the cook, through whose indisposition the 
captain’s breakfast had been served up badly ; nor did 
he spare the crew, but vented his disi3leasure on them all, 
— all, that is to say, save Nicole Louandre. 

Louandre was fully a match for the captain, and fling- 
ing back as good as was given him, he stood his ground 
against Bisson’s undue authority. This quiet pugnacity 
of the mate, which was rather pleasing to Bisson in his 
moments of good-nature, irritated him beyond measure 
when aught went' wrong; and the men suffered accord- 
ingly. Things looked very bad indeed to-day. Gas- 
cone’s freckled face was rendered more forbidding by a 
broad piece of black plaster which covered an ugly cut 
Louandre had given him, and several of the other sailors 
bore on their features visible signs of the recent violence. 

When Morna saw the effect of Louandre’s onslaught 
on the men, she felt sorry, though she knew^ that the 
chastisement had been well deserved ; and they, in their 
turn, looked with no friendly eyes upon her. The next 
morning the cook w^as able to attend to his duties again, 
and he served up in the captain’s cabin a very dainty 
repast, but did not succeed, how^ever, in soothing the cap- 
tain’s temper. Morna was amazed to find how clouded 
Bisson’s fair face could become, how sharply could ring 
out his once musical voice, and how keen and cruel his 
blue eyes could look. He was a changed man at sea. 
But she 3vas not so much astonished as she w-ould have 
been a few months before. Since that dark night when 


A GLIMPSE OF HOME. 


205 


she had left her home and sailed away with him upon the 
ocean, many things had been revealed to her, and amongst 
them had been glimpses of the inner soul of the man to 
whom she had given her love. His face was beautiful, 
and she had deemed his soul beautiful too, but she had 
been wrong. Now that she saw him in his own element, 
much was revealed to her which threw a lurid light upon 
the man. 

Meantime, the “ Hortense ” was running merrily 011 be- 
fore the calm breeze. All around the water was deep 
green, broken here and there into flashes of foam ; and 
above, patches of white cloud drifted eastward across the 
sky. 

One afternoon Bisson was lounging on the deck, holding 
between his gloved fingers his habitual cigar. Louandre 
was at the helm, and Morna, with the captain’s glass in 
her hand, was diligently scanning the horizon. She had 
held the glass directed towards one spot for some time, 
when she lowered it and looked with her naked eye ; then 
she raised the glass and looked again. Far away where 
sea and sky met, a thick, slate-colored mass was dimly 
visible. At first it appeared to Morna like a bank of clouds, 
but on closer scrutiny through the glass, she fancied .she 
detected the outlines and peaks of hills enshrouded in 
mist, and mingling with the dim vapor of sea and sky. 
I 3 ropping the glass again, she turned towards Bisson. 

“ Is it not land ? ” she asked, pointing to the dark mass, 
and then added quickly, “ what land can it be ? ” 

Bisson did not reply, apparently difi not hear ; but Lou- 
andre heard the question, and after waiting a suitable time 
for Bisson to answer, replied, 

“ It is land, and it is an ugly land too, but we pass not 
that way ! ” 

“What country is it? ” asked Morna. 

And Louandre, in his thickest voice and strongest ac- 
cent, 

“ Dat is de coast of Ireland ! ” 

Ireland ! She leapt to her feet and strained her eyes 
again. Ah ! yes, it must be the land, for the peaks and 
summits of the bids, which she knew and loved so well, 
seemed almost familiar to her now, though they were so 


2o6 


THE DARK COLLEEN. 


thickly coated over with the dewy mists of the horizon. 
Standing there, she gazed and gazed in a dream ; then, 
shutting the glass, and forgetting all about the men who 
stood near her, and Louandre who watched her, she crept 
'up to Bisson’s side and said softly 

“ Will you not be glad to see the hills and the crags 
again ? We have been so long away.” 

Bisson rose to his feet now, threw the end of his cigar 
into the water, and looked into her bright face. 

“You mistake, Morna,” he said, “we cannot go there 
now — our course lies far away.” 

“ But you will take me to Eagle Island as you prom- 
ised ? ” 

“ Not at all,” returned Bisson, impatiently ; “ that is im- 
possible this voyage. We are late as it is, and we must 
keep to our course.” And without looking into her face 
attain he strolled awav to his cabin. 

Morna turned again and gazed at the dark mass which 
they said was the country of her birth, until it became 
dimmer and dimmer, and finally almost faded from her 
sight in a blinding mist of sparkling foam and slate- grey 
cloud ; then she turned away and went to the captain’s 
cabin. Bisson was seated at the table bending over charts 
which were spread out before him. Sitting beside him. 
Morna put her hand on his. 

“ Where, then, are we going ? ” she asked. 

Bisson took the instrument, with which he had been 
measuring the mileage and pointed to a spot on the chart, 
a great seaport town situated on the east coast of Ireland, 
about two hundred miles east from Crome. 

“There ! ” 

“ Is that far from Eagle Island? ” 

This time Bisson raised his head, and looked at her 
very steadily. 

“ Why do you ask me, little one ? ” 

“ Because,” returned Morna, with quivering lip, “ I was 
thinking if we did not sail there in the ship, you would 
maybe take me in a smack like that which brought us 
away.” 

“ My Morna, that is impossible now. I have said so ; 
we will go another time.” 


A GLIMPSE OF HOME, 


207 


But Morna, putting her hand into his, said quietly, 

“ Sure, you promised before I came away, and I 
thought you would do it. It would be only for a little 
while. I do not wish to stay ; I only want to see my 
father and Truagh. Would you not do this for me, just 
to make me happy ? ’’ 

“Then you are not happy now, ma mieV he asked, 
coldly. 

“ Yes, indeed ! ” she replied, “ I am quite happy with 
you, but I should like to go back to Eagle Island just for 
a little while.” 

“ If it were possible I would take you,” said Bisson, 
rolling up his charts ; “ but as I said, it cannot be. We 
were late in sailing, the fine weather is a chance, for we 
are subject now to winter storms, and must make the 
journey short.” 

Morna said no more, but when Bisson had returned to 
the deck she went to her cabin and wept silently over the 
sudden dissolving of her dream. 

At midnight, two nights after this, the “ Hortense ” 
dropped her anchor in the harbor of Ballyferry, and in the 
morning, when Andre the cook popped his head out of the 
hatchway, he found indeed that they had reached their 
destination, and his patched up face glowed with delight. 
After the breakfast had been served in the little cabin, the 
captain’s boat was lowered, and when Bisson and Morna 
were seated in the stern, four of the crew put out their oars 
and pulled lustily for the shore. It was a great seaport, 
with an atmosphere full of rank odors, — a contrast, indeed, 
to the clean streets and green hillsides of Bernise. To be 
sure there were hills and valleys here too, and stretches of 
green fields outside the town ; but Morna had no oppor- 
tunity of seeing these. During the time that she was kept 
on shore she was shut up in the dingy parlor of a noisy inn, 
while Bisson donned his most dandified apparel and made 
the calls which he had to make, and otherwise saw to the 
safe disposal of the cargo of the “ Hortense.” 

About a fortnight passed, and at the end of that time 
the “ Hortense ” was trim and ready for starting on her 
return voyage to France. It was not until the night of 
leaving that Bisson took Morna on board, and they found 


2o8 


THE DARK COLLEEH. 


all in as good order is it baid been while the ship was 
lying in Hantour. The French flag waved from the stern, 
the sails were partly unfurled, and in the little cabin the 
supper was spread. Bisson was gentle and kind, but 
Morna felt very sad, and not even her husband’s smiles 
could soothe away the sorrow from her face. If he had 
taken her to Eagle Island just for a day, she thought, she 
would have been well content, willing to travel with him, to 
stay with him in his own home or elsewhere. But he had 
broken the promise which he had made her ; he had almost 
brought her within sight of her home, yet would not take 
her there ; and though he held forth bright hopes for the 
future, she could not help feeling that they were likely to 
meet with as swift a death as those which he had conjured 
up for her before- So when an hour or so later the 
“ Hortense ” put out to sea on her return voyage to France, 
?kIorna felt that in all probability she would never see her 
home again. 

It required a much less sagacious intellect than that of 
Captain Bisson to discover ere long the fact that a very 
decided change had taken place in the mate ; that, in fact, 
he treated Morna with a grim sort of respect which was 
quite foreign to his nature, and which in Bisson’s mind 
showed that he entertained a certain liking for the girl. 
Strange to say, no sooner did Bisson make this discovery 
than there flashed through his mind the recollection of the 
conversation which had passed between himself and the 
mate when Morna had first come on board the ship. 
What had thus possessed him to so positively deny the 
fact of his marriage, he could not tell ; but having done so, 
he saw no reason why he should proceed to erase the im- 
pression, nor, indeed, why he should in any way resent the 
behavior of Louandre. 

“ After all,” he very wisely reflected, “ we none of us 
can tell what there may be in store for us, and it might 
at some future time be well that Louandre had turned his 
thoughts towards the girl.” 

Now although he said nothing of these strange reflec- 
tions of his, they worked a curious change in his manner. 
To Morna he was strangely fitful, cold and indifferent at 
times, and at others kind beyond measure ; while with the 


A GLIMPSE OF HOME. 


209 

crew he was violent and cruel. Perhaps it was the rough 
life \\hich he led at sea that transformed him so, that some- 
times filled his eyes with a strange fierce light when he 
looked at her, and imparted a new harshness to his voice. 
Certain it is that since he had come on board the “ Hor- 
tense,'’ the contrast to his farmer self had been very great. 
Well, perhaps after all he had been right, when he had 
said that it was not fit for a woman to sail the seas ; and 
Morna felt sorry now that she h^d acted in opposition to 
his will. So she felt glad when the “ Hortense ” again 
dropped her anchor in Hantour harbor, and when she saw 
the lights of the town gleaming afar, and heard the noise of 
trade. When Bisson proposed that they should leave the 
ship that very night and hasten home, she gladly consented. 

It was a clear cold night, for winter had now set in ; 
all the fields were white with hoar-frost, and the roads 
were frozen hard. The conductor of the diligence, 
buttoned up to his throat, was lashing his breast to keep 
himself warm ; and the horses steamed. As they left the 
frozen lanes behind them and entered the streets of 
Eernise, they saw that the girls hurrying up and down were 
wrapped in their warm winter cloaks and scarlet hoods ; 
and the men rubbed their red noses and beat themselves 
as the conductor had done. The red houses looked cosier 
now, and Morna thought her rooms looked prettier too 
for the dark red curtains drawn across the windows shut 
out the flashing lamp-light of the street, and the bright red 
flames from the wood fire played pleasantly upon the 
polished oaken floor, lighting up her large dark wistful 
eyes and Bisson’s golden head and brightly smiling face. 
As he lay back in his easy chair, Bisson for the time being 
felt at peace with all mankind. The old supreme smile 
played about Ifis lips again, and some of the old light 
gleamed from his eyes as they rested upon the dark gleam- 
ing face of his “ belle sanvagel^ 

And as Morna looked upon him she thought, 

“ I have been wrong. ’Tis I that must have changed, 
not he. Sure he is the same as he was to me, the same 
as he always will be ; but this kind of life that I have had 
to lead at sea is very strange, and not at all like that I 
knew when I was on Eagle Island.” 

14 


210 


THE DARK COLLEEN. 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 


MOTHER AND CHILD. 


NE morning, about two days after Bisson’s return to 



Bernise, as Euphrasie Monier stood before her mirror, 
placing upon her head a dainty little structure of lace and 
ribbon, preparatory to descending to partake of her break- 
fast and resume her duties in the cafe, a knock came to 
her bedroom door. 

E/itrez /” she called in her high-toned voice, and the 
door opened admitting her mother, 

Madame Monier’s face was puckered up into grim 
smiles, and her bony hands held forth to Euphrasie articles 
which made the girl smile also: — one, a small square box 
neatly tied up and addressed to “ Mademoiselle Monier,” 
the other a costly silk cloak well lined with fur. 

“ Maman ! ” cried Euphrasie, clapping her hands to- 
gether and bounding forward, “ this is charming ! ” And 
before the old lady could speak she had seized the cloak, 
fastened it round her neck, and was pirouetting before the 
glass. 

Turning to her mother again she took the box, cut the 
string, removed the lid, and discovered a brooch and a 
pair of ear-rings of blood-red coral set in gold. The slip 
of paper accompanying them and bearing the words “from 
Emile Bisson,” she crumpled up and threw aside, but the 
ear-rings she fastened in her ears, the brooch on her cloak, 
and turning to the glass she pirouetted round again. 

“Tell me, maman,” she cried in ecstasy, and drawing 
the cloak royally about her, “ is it not becoming? I will 
wear them all on the eve of Noel when I go to the mid- 
night mass.” 

“ All ? ” croaked out Madame. Euphrasie, you mis- 
take, — the cloak is mine.” 

Immediately the girl’s face fell. She glanced at her 
mother, then at the cloak, as if she were taking counsel of 
that article as to the way in which she must behave ; 


MOTHER AND CHILD. 


211 


while her mother, who had noted the sudden change in 
her countenance, stood watching her. Suddenly her face 
brightened. Loosening the cloak from her own neck, she 
wrapped it in the most unbecoming manner about her 
mother’s shoulders, and throwing up her head surv^eyed 
her parent from head to foot. Then she burst into a ring- 
ing laugh. 

“ Yours, maman bah!” she cried, and pushing her 
mother towards the mirror she added, “ Look! ” 

“ But I tell you it is, Euphrasie. Captain Bisson sent 
it to me.” 

“ He was a goose to do so, then. Ah, these men have 
no taste. It is not fitted for you at all, maman, since you 
are andefJ7ie /” 

“You are a bad undutiful child, Euphrasie, to call me 
a7icieii7ie, when my hair is still brown ! ” cried Madame, 
angrily. 

But the girl, still surveying her form, threw up her 
head and laughed immoderately until the tears gathered 
in her eyes. 

“ Attend the chapel in that guise and the good priest 
would not be able to read mass, I protest. Truly you 
would serve as a scarecrow for the rooks.” 

Madame’s wrinkled face grew very dark. 

“It is not the good priest that teaches you to speak so 
to your mother, Euphrasie ; confess to him what you have 
said to me to-day, and he would not absolve you. You 
are a bad girl, and you will come to no good. It is be- 
cause you wish the cloak yourself that you insult me.” 

But Euphrasie, blinking her eyes in her mother’s face, 
clasped her hands around her neck and laid her cheek on 
her bosom. 

“I insult you, 77ta77ia7i N she exclaimed in well 

assumed protestation. “You mistake, I would not; but 
since on you the cloak looks grotesque, I would take it to 
myself, and in place of it I will give you my beautiful black 
one which is almost new — there ! ” 

But Madame, now quite insensible to the soft tones of 
the girl, pushed her aside. 

“ Do not caress me, Euphrasie, for you are a selfish 
girl, and would take the bread from my mouth to satisfy 


212 


THE DARK COLLEEN. 


yourself. You would not have dared to treat me as you 
do if your poor father had lived. He saw what you were, 
and he told me ; and I, nia foi, I will tell Captain Bisson 
what you are.” 

“ Bah ! ” exclaimed Euphrasie, “ why do you talk so ? 
you know you will not say one word.” 

“ But I will, Euphrasie. I will tell him all, and see 
then if he gives you more presents. He thinks you are 
good to your old mother, as they all think, but they are 
Vv^rong — they do not know you.” 

“ Maman,” cried Euphrasie, in a tone shrill enough to 
drown her parent’s voice ; “ you are talking nonsense. 
Emile Bisson would not believe your wicked tales ; no, 
not if I smiled and told him they were all untrue. And 
you — how would you live if you had not your own Eu- 
phrasie — since she it is who brings the money to the 
cafe .? ” 

“Truly, and you take care to keep it ! ” muttered 
Madame. 

“ It is you who are selfish ! ” continued the girl, heed- 
less of the interruption ; “ since you see that the cloak 
suits me, and yet you wish to retain it. You should not 
have children if you mean to take all and give them no- 
thing ! ” 

“ Take all ! ” echoed Madame, holding up her hands, 
’tis you who take all, — that is just it, for I have to ask 
you for every sou!'" 

“ Bah ! ” cried Euphrasie, again tossing her head, but 
quite unable to contradict the statement ; “ you are stupid, 
maman, but I forgive you. Go and prepare the breakfast, 
for it is late, and I hear many people below ; there, go and 
say no more ! ” and kissing her indignant parent, she took 
her by the shoulders, and gently put her outside the door. 
Then she folded the cloak, and put it with the ear-rings 
and brooch carefully away. Again turning to the mirror, 
she settled her cap upon her head before she descended to 
breakfast. 

When mother and daughter sat down to that meal, the 
old lady had regained her temper. Often as these out- 
bursts came, they never lasted, for although Madame was 
fully aware of Euphrasie’s faults, she adored her child. 


MOTHER AND CHILD: 


213 

She now piled the girl’s plate with the most tempting 
things on the table, for Euphrasie’s appetite was “ deli- 
cate,” Madame often averred, and had to be humored. 

_ “ What is that, maman ” asked Euphrasie, presently, 
nodding towards a small square tin, which stood on the 
table. 

Madame, lifted a packet of l)o?ihons and passed it over. 

“It is something for you, my clear. Madame Malan- 
dain sent it to me yesterday, and I kept it for you.” 

Euphrasie took the tin, and finding the bonbons palat- 
able, ate away contentedly. When she had finished, find- 
ing there were still some left in the bottom, she handed it 
back. 

There, maman, do not say again that I am bad, and 
wicked, and selfish, because it is not true ! ” and leaving an 
affectionate kiss on her mother’s cheek, she passed out 
through the door into the public room, to attend to busi- 
ness while her mother finished her meal. 

There were few people lingering.-there, for it was still 
early. After she had picked up one or two francs, which 
were thrown upon the tables at her approach, and had 
ordered the garcon to remove the cups and wipe the stains 
from the marble, Euphrasie again returned to the back 
parlor, and sent her mother forth to preside over the 
scene. 

But when the evening had fallen and the cafe began 
to fill, when the domino-boxes rattled, and the billiard-balls 
clashed, she again emerged upon the scene — this time 
wearing tlie brooch and ear-rings she had that morning 
received. The night air was very cold without, but the air 
of the cafe was warm, and there was a heightened color 
in the girl’s cheeks, and a strange brightness in her eyes, 
which considerably increased her beauty, and drew all eyes 
upon her. Without any flinching, she returned the looks, 
gazing at the faces one by one before she went to her 
work. 

Despite the veiy satisfactory manner in which the coin 
rattled upon the marble tables, previous to descending 
into the depths of Euphrasie’s pockets, there was, to-night, 
a strange restlessness in the girl’s manner. With an ex- 
traordinary amount of curiosity she watched every face 


214 


THE DARK COLLEEN. 


which came in at the caf^ door. However, as the even- 
ing wore away, this restlessness in a measure disappeared, 
and she became quite absorbed in the pleasures around 
her. 

“Mademoiselle, I will stake two napoleons if you will 
play at billiards with me.” 

The remark came from a thick-set little Frenchman, 
who had been watching whth strange interest the lithesome 
movements of the girl, and w'^as anxious to monopolize such 
beauty to himself for a little space. Euphrasie at once 
took the offer for wdiat it was worth. Pausing before him, 
she threw up her head and smiled. 

“ Billiards, Monsieur ! It is not a game for a lady 
to play ! ” 

“ But you can play, Mam’selle. I have seen you ! ” 

Euphrasie laughed lightly. 

“ Assuredly — I have played wath my friend. Captain 
Bisson, but I do not wash to make a practice of inlaying in 
the cafd.” 

Indeed Euphrasie was a good player. She had learn- 
ed the game during her father’s life-time, and she had 
played, as the little man said, several games wath Captain 
Bisson during his visits to the cafd. But w^hen it came to 
playing promiscuously, it w^as another matter. Still she 
had no wish to offend her customers, and she stood hesi- 
tating. 

“ I will stake tw^o napoldons, Mam’selle,” began the 
man again, when Euphrasie laughingly interrupted him. 

“ That i.s, if I win, you will pay me two napoldons, and 
if you win I wall pay you nothing ! ” 

Euphrasie knew what she was about. The odds would 
be against her in the game, and why should she stake 
money ? If she w^on, she would get two napoleons as com- 
pensation for the time spent in her opponent’s company ; 
and although if she lost, she w^ould have no gold sw^ept 
aw^ay, would it not be enough that she, the most fascin- 
ating girl in Hantour, would have wasted all her smiles 
and sweetness upon a mere log ? 

But Euphrasie played well ; and now that money was 
in question, she exerted her utmost powers to win. Quite 
forgetting the existence of her companion, she concentrated 


MOTHER AND CHILD. 


215 


all her pretty energies upon the game, until at last the 
victory was hers. Then casting aside her cue, she calmly 
looked for her reward. 

Now, pleasures past are not so willingly paid for as 
pleasures to come, and no sooner was the tete-a-tHc over, 
than the Frenchman began to realize the fact that he had 
been a fool. Two napoleons to pay! — and he had not 
spoken half-a-dozen words to her — and she — why, she had 
never once thought of him, and scarcely looked at him. 
Unquestionably it was dear at the price; so one of the 
napoleons was slipped into his pocket, the other placed in 
her hand. But Euphrasie was not to be so befooled. 
Stretching forth her pink palm, she opened her bright 
eyes. 

“One napoleon, M’sieur? you staked two!’ 

“ I will play you again for another.” 

“ That will not do ; you staked two, and 3^ou must pay 
them. The game was fairly won, and the stake is mine. 

“I was not thinking of the game, but of your pretty 
eyes, and so I played badly. We will play again for one 
napoleon, or for the two.” 

“No, that will not do either. I should then be staking 
my own, and -I have no wish to do so — you will pay me 
these that are mine and then I will play you another day 
for two more, if you so wish.” 

But the Frenchman had no such desire. Seeing that 
his remonstrances were not at alLlikely to meet with suc- 
cess, he very reluctantly placed his second napoleon in the 
girl’s hand and turned away. And Euphrasie, closing her 
fingers over the prize, returned to her duties, quite well 
content. The very avariciousness of the proceeding did 
not strike her ; she had insisted upon her rights, that was 
all. A few minutes later all recollection of the crestfallen 
countenance of the Frenchman was entirely obliterated 
from her mind, and her busy brain was conjuring up all 
kinds of speculations as to the cause of Captain Bisson’s 
absence from the cafe' that night. It was strange he had 
not come, and very mortifying too — since Euphrasie, being 
very slow of study, had spent the whole of that day in get- 
ting off by heart a pretty little speech of thanks which 
would now be entirely lost. 


2i6 


THE DARK COLLEEN. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 


THE MIDNIGHT MASS 


EVERAL days passed, and still Captain Bisson had 



not made his appearance at the cafe of the Fleur-de- 
Lys. Euphrasie, who had looked for him each day, was 
amazed, and in a measure disappointed. Although the 
girl had pronounced the good captain somewhat bete, she 
found him considerably more entertaining than the gen- 
erality of men who crossed her path. Besides the fur cloak 
and the coral ornaments operated considerably in his fa- 
vor ; and if he continued to signalize his visits to the 
cafe with such . beautiful souvenirs., why he would be thrice 
welcome. But although the presents had been sent and 
accepted, the speech of thanks remained unmade and now 
almost forgotten. While picking up her coins in a strange 
abstracted manner, Euphrasie worked her brain as to the 
cause of the captain's protracted absence from her house. 

The “ Hortense ” still lay in the bay ; and leaving her 
to the care of the mate. Captain Bisson still took his 
pleasure ashore. This much Euphrasie had ascertained 
through the medium of Nicole Louandre, who came at 
limes to sip absinthe and play dominoes at the cafe. More 
than this Louandre did not tell ; whether or not he knew 
more Euphrasie could not say. Nor indeed did her busy 
brain continue to speculate on the matter, for the colder 
the weather became, the brisker her business grew and the 
more nimble her fingers. The doors of the cafd were 
closed now^ at night, a bright charbonfixe, burnt in the little 
black stove, and the glittering glass chandelier was blazing 
with additional jets of gas. Madame’s features were 
pinched with the cold, but Euphrasie’s cheeks were bloom- 
ing perhaps more brightly than they had done before. 
Regularly every morning, wrapping her body in soft furs 
and issuing from the cafd, she promenaded up and down 
^the cold white streets, while the frosty air blew off the ill 
effects of hot rooms and late hours. 


THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 


217 


Meanwhile the time sped on, colder and colder grew 
the air, and Euphrasie peeping from her window one morn- 
ing found that the street was covered with snow. It lay 
thick upon the pavement and on the house-tops, blocking 
up the doorways and making walking tedious. But 
Euphrasie was not deterred. Wrapping Bisson’s fur cloak 
about her, she issued as usual from the cafe' after the 
breakfast was over, and hurried along through the drift. 
Everybody looked this morning red and chilly, for the air 
was very keen, but the shops were brightly decorated with 
bunches of holly and mistletoe, and up in the chapels the 
priests and choristers were collected rehearsing their per- 
formance of midnight mass. At twelve o’clock that night 
the annual plays would be performed, and the bells of all 
the chapels would ring in Christmas Day. 

The snovy which whitened Hantour whitened also the 
streets of Bernise, and Morna, looking from the window, as 
Euphrasie had done, saw the little town transformed ; 
robbed of all its greenness now, for the hills and valleys 
were thickly coated with snow, the leafless branches of the 
trees were heavily laden, and the bright red faces of the 
buildings were dusted over with the drift. The men, puf- 
fing out their cheeks, and beating themselves fiercely, 
hastened along, and the girls were well wrapped up in their 
great black cloaks and bright scarlet hoods. The window 
panes were frosted over and looked like crystal, and upon 
the sill sat a robin, looking at the new fallen snow. 

“ You will take me to hear the midnight mass ? ” asked 
Morna, glancing over her shoulder at Bisson, who, reclin- 
ing in his velvet chair by the warm fireside, dreamily fixed 
his eyes upon the frozen panes. 

“ Assuredly, if you wish it, Morna ! ’■ he replied, 
“ though in truth there is little to see, and — the night will 
be cold.’’ 

“ O, I do not care for the cold ! ” returned Morna, 
elated at the prospect of seeing the pretty show ; “ but I 
should like to hear the midnight mass here in France. 
You told me about it, you know, when we were on Eagle 
Island.” 

' Bisson laughed and nodded. 

“ Well, little one, you shall go.” 


2i8 


7'HE DARK CvLLLEK. 


So that night, when the bells of all the chapeis rang out 
merrily, and tlie population, answering the call, issued from 
their dwellings and made their way along the cold white 
streets towards the chapel on the hill. Captain Bisson and 
Morna went with the rest. 

It was a dark night, but all the street lamps were lit 
and hashed down brightly upon the sparkling snow ; a 
very chilly wind blew, drifting the snow dowai the hillside, 
and scattering it from the branches of the trees upon the 
heads of those who made their way up the straight little 
narrow paths leading to the chapel door. I'he bright gilded 
gate was throwm wade open now^, and at the door of the 
chapel a man in a cocked hat and gold-tipped staff wais 
stationed to conduct the people to their seats. 

When Captain Bisson entered with Morna the chapel 
was almost full. Such a crowd of human faces, such a 
variety of human heads ! Hoods of the brightest scarlet 
and blue, wdiite muslin caps, coquettish hats and drooping 
feathers, all according admirably w'ith the bright painted 
w'indows and gilded roof of the building, and the glaring 
brass chandeliers wdiich, suspended from the roof, hung 
above the chapel aisle. Shading her eyes for a moment 
until they grew^ accustomed to the great glare, and stepping 
softly along wdth downcast eyes through the crow'd, Morna 
sat clown in a retired seat close beside her husband. Pull- ■ 
ing off his hat, and running his fingers through his golden 
hair, Bisson folded his arms upon the carved oak seat be- 
fore him and looked carelessly around. 

The chapel was prettily decorated wdth bright green 
leaves, great bunches of red-berried holly, and artificial 
dowsers ; and the congregation, wdiispering together, gazed 
admiringly at the decorations and commented audibly 
thereon. Above the altar hung wu'eaths of flow’ers half 
buried in clusters of leaves, and a number of wax candles, 
yet unlit, w^ere formed into the likeness of an immense 
papal crown. 

Presently the chiming of the bells ceased, and the 
great organ pealed forth, filling the church w'ith solemn 
music. Simultaneously a small door at the back of the 
altar w^as thrown open, and there entered a procession of 
priests two by two, clothed in their white robes and chant- 


THE MIDmCHT MASS, 


319 

ing in clog latin as they arranged themselves in set posi- 
tions about the altar, making the whole look like a well 
arranged scene from a play. The door closed again, and 
the priests continued their dreary chant while the organ 
played on, and small acolytes clad in white moved hither 
ancl thither about the altar. Then appeared a man (we 
had almost said a scene-shifter) with turned up shirt-sleeves, 
and carrying a long pole to the end of which was attachecl 
a lighted candle with which he proceeded to light up the 
candles forming the* papal crown. It was slow work, for 
some of the candles could not be made to light, others re- 
fused to burn, popping out after the taper had been remov- 
ed. 'rhe task, however, was accomplished in time, and 
the papal crown burnt brightly. 

The great clock struck tw^elve ; then two ringers seizing 
the ropes which hung without the altar rails chimed in 
Christmas morning. All the congregation rose and joined 
in the hymn of the Nativity. And Morna, feeling the 
solemn music overpower her — strangely impressed by the 
bright theatrical pomp — by the priests in theirwhite robes, 
the shining lights illuminating the flowers and tinsel, and 
the bright pretty faces around her, — stood amidst the rest 
w’ith folded hands, flushed cheeks and reverent downcast 
eyes. 

The hymn ceased, and the congregation returned to 
their seats, but the ceremony w^as not over. About half-a- 
dozen youths dressed in their Sunday black appeared at 
the altar ; each seized a lighted candle ; and then preced- 
ed by the man wdth the gold tipped staff and cocked hat, 
they marched two by two down to the other end of the 
church c’lanting dismally in Latin “ Nation vidimus et chorus 
Angelorum callaudaiiLs Dominum ! ” Those were the 
shepherds bearing abroad the news of the Nativity. 

Immediately afterwards Morna became aw^are of a 
strong sickly smell permeating the heated atmosphere of 
the place, and looking abou-t her she saw another procession 
making its way towards the altar. A few small boys 
dressed in w'hite, walking slowly up the aisle. In their 
hands they lield glittering lamps attached to long brass 
chains, which they swung before them, scattering the 
incense as they went. Close behind them came two men 


220 


THE DARK COLLEEN. 


in black, holding aloft two large flags brightly tinseled and 
stamped with impressions of the Madonna and Child. 
Behind these again came the shepherd, still preceded by 
the man with the gold-tipped staff, but this time instead of 
the lighted candles, they bore on a large salver, covered 
with a white cloth, the pain benit — a huge piece of sweet 
bread shaped like a papal crown and almost smothered in 
green leaves and artificial flowers. Two men in white 
robes waving tinsel flags, bearipg an impression of the 
crucifixion, closed the procession. 

At the altar they paused, placing themselves in pic- 
turesque groups, still waving the flags aloft and chanting 
dismally in Latin. Then the tallest, most spectral-look- 
ing of the priests, advancing with measured footsteps, 
waved his hands above the bread and silently blessed it, — 
upon which it was cut by an attendant into small pieces 
and distributed amongst the congregation. 

•With the ceremony of the pain bhiit all interest in the 
midnight mass seemed to have died away. No sooner 
were the pieces of cake distributed, than the congregation, 
forgetful of the music and the chanting of the priests, 
munched contentedly at the bread, and yawned and stared 
about the chapel, whispering audibly amongst themselves. 
Then Bisson, slipping his share into Morna’s hands, leaned 
his arms upon the seat before him and looked once more 
around. As he did so, he became conscious that he had 
attracted the attention of a person in the crowd ; turning 
his head he stared full into a face which he knew only too 
well. 

Wrapped in the costly silk cloak which he himself had 
sent, and wearing his coral ornaments, with a fashionable 
black hat placed coquettishly on her head and a white 
feather drooping to her shoulder, sat, beneath the glare 
of the gaslight in the most conspicuous part of the chapel, 
Euphrasie Monier. In one hand she held her share of the 
pain benit, which she nibbled contentedly, in the other a 
small ivory-bound prayerbook. With as trangely intent 
expression on her face she was looking full at Morna, but 
wdien, turning her eyes she met those of Bisson, she smiled 
significantly and nodded towards him her gayly feathered 
head. 


A SHADOW OH THE SNOW, 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 


A SHADOW ON THE SNOW. 



ISSON did not return tlie salute, but after staring 


fixedly for a moment drew back into the shadow. 
Five minutes later, motioning Morna to follow him, he 
quietly left the chapel to return to his home. The air was 
very cold, for it was freezing hard, but the streets were 
lively with people hurrying to and fro, shouting and singing 
songs of Noel. 

Drawing her cloak closely around her Morna put her 
hand on her husband’s arm and drew near to his side, but 
he drew her impatiently away, saying almost angrily, 

“ Cannot you walk alone, Morna ? the path is clear.’’ 

The words were uttered so irritably that Morna started ; 
then ha.stily withdrawing l.er hand she turned to look at 
him, but the night was too dark for her to see his face dis- 
tinctly. So she walked on without a word. 

Though she had been unable to see her husband’s face, 
.she had noted something else which was perhaps the 
chief cause of her silence. A dark figure, that of a man, 
was moving stealthily along over the snow only a few yards 
behind her. When she turned her head she observed that 
the figure paused, but when, keeping close to her husband’s 
side, she continued her way it too moved forward, keeping 
the same distance between them as before. Vv’hat could 
induce a man to follow her, Morna could not tell : but tlnit 
he was following her and watching her closely she had no 
doubt, since every time she paused and glanced over her 
shoulder he paused too, moving on again as she resumed 
her way. 

For a long time she said nothing, though she felt a 
great sense of uneasiness steal over her, and glanced half- 
fearfully around ; but when passing rapidly downward, they 
had left the chapel behind, fading away far up on the 
white hillside, Morna perceived that the figure was behind 
her still, she lightly touched her husband’s arm, whispering 
softly : 


222 


THE DARK COLLEEN. 


“ Just glance back for one moment ; there is some one 
following us.” 

Bisson’s first thought was of .Euphrasie. He turned 
hastily ; the figure had disappeared. 

“ Bah ! people can walk about the streets without 
watching us ! ” he said in the same irritable voice ; “ it was 
your fancy — nothing more.” 

Morna knew it had not been her fancy, and what made 
her attach more weight to the occurrence was that the fig- 
ure should pause and disappear whenever there was a 
chance of its being observed. 

When they reached home, however, when Bisson had 
lit up his habitual cigar, and was again lounging in his 
chair watching the smoke as it issued from his slightly 
parted lips, Morna, throwing off her scarlet hood and snow 
covered cloak, took her seat too beside the fire. The 
memory of the man v/ho had dogged her steps from the 
chapel to the town was forgotten, and clasping her hands 
around her knees she turned to her husband. 

“ It was a pretty sight, was it not? ” she asked. 

Bisson puffing out his smoke, replied abstractedly, 

“ Perhaps, I cannot tell.” 

“ Why you were there ! ” said Morna, opening her eyes. 
“ You saw — did you not think it very grand ? ” 

He rose impatiently from his seat. 

“ J/c? foi ! I cannot be cross-questioned so, I am not in 
the humor. You have seen it all, so be contented and leave 
me alone.” 

“ You feel ill ?” asked Morna, gently, unable otherwise 
to account for the extraordinary change which had come 
over him. 

“ Not at all, I am quite well — but — I wish to be alone.” 

“ And you would like me to go to bed ? she asked. 

And Bisson curtly replied, 

“ I have said so.” 

Without another word she lit a candle and moved to- 
wards the door ; then she paused and returned to his 
side. 

“ You are angry with me ? ” she asked apprehensively. 

“ No, no ! ” replied Bisson, impatiently ; “but it is late, 
and as I said, you would be better asleep.” 


SI/ADOIV OA' THE SXOW. 


Silently she turned away and left him. 

When she reached her room, instead of going quietly to 
her bed, she set down the candle and paced with fitful steps 
up and down the floor, while with lier eyes fixed vacantly 
before her she pondered long and deeply on the cause of 
the sudden change which had been wrought in her husband 
that night. What had caused that change Morna could 
not tell ; but it seemed to her as if a charm had come upon 
him, which had hardened his heart against her. And yet 
it might only be her fancy. There must be many things 
occupying his mind which she could not comprehend, and 
now that he was in his own country he had more to harass 
him than he had had on Eagle Island. He had taken her 
to the chapel as she had wished — that had been kind — and 
yet she felt that she would much rather not have gone to 
the midnight mass if she could have foreseen that her visit 
would have had such an end. 

The time passed away, and the flame of the candle grew 
dim before the bright moonlight, which crept in through 
the curtained window and illuminated the room. And 
Morna, arousing from the strange trance into which she 
had fallen, drew aside the window-curtain and looked out. 
All the street was very quiet ; not a soul was to be seen 
or a sound heard ; the shadows from the houses were cast 
black upon the snow. Shivering with the chilly air of the 
room Morna was about to let the curtain fall, when sud- 
denly her eye was attracted to a figure which stood on the 
pavement beyond. It remained in the shadow, with its 
face turned towards the window where she stood, but when 
Morna, shading her eyes with her hands, bent closer still 
towards the pane, it suddenly disappeared. Again she re- 
membered the mysterious figure which had dogged her 
footsteps that night; again she felt impelled to go and 
speak to Bisson, but recalling his unaccountable behavior 
to her before, she very wisely refrained. She looked out 
again ; the street was quite empty. After a while, subdu- 
ing her strange fears, she lay down upon the bed and soon 
fell asleep. 

A few hours later she was awakened from an uneasy 
slumber by the merry chiming of the chapel bells, and she 
knew that they were ringing in Christmas Day, The streets 


224 


THE DARK COLLEEN. 


lying cold and white were crowded with gay promenaders, 
the chapel doors were thrown open, and the chapels 
crowded, while everywhere was heard the clatter of shoes 
and sabots, and the merry laughter of boys and girls. 

All that day Captain Bisson, still in the same irritable 
humor, kept to the house, contenting himself with smoking 
his cigar by his own fireside, and watching the merry- 
makers without ; but when evening set in he donned his 
brightest attire, slipped some rings upon his fingers, and 
issuing forth into the street, took his seat in the diligence 
which was going to Hantour. In Hantour he found the 
bustle greater still ; such a shouting, laughing, kissing and 
singing ; for the cafes had been thrown open during the 
day and the sweet smelling liquors had begun to take de- 
cided effect upon the inhabitants. Amorous clerks, grown 
reckless with sipping cognac, kissed their sweethearts and 
scattered bonbons in the open street, while students from 
the college passed along with arms clasped carelessly 
about each other’s waist, singing scraps of convivial 
songs. 

Aligliting from the diligence. Captain Bisson made his 
way through th.e crowd to the cafe of tlie Fleur-de-Lys. 
Pausing before the door stroking his mustache with his 
gaily beringed fingers, he took a survey of the place. 

The cafe was fuller and brighter than it had ever been 
before. All round the room hung wreaths of ivy leaves, 
looped up here and there with bunches of red berries and 
bright artificial flowers, while the glass chandelier, ablaze 
with gas, was covered with holly and mistletoe. At every 
one of those little marble tables gathered an excited group, 
rattling the dice boxes and placing the dominoes. Flutter- 
ing across the room was Ifuphrasie, brighter and prettier 
too than Bisson had ever beheld her, sweet and merry, yet 
with the pretty business-like look w'hich became her so 
w’ell. Instead of the short ])etticoats and high-heeled 
shoes, she wore to-night a robe wath a train ; a dark warm- 
looking dress well trimmed with soft brown fur, which set 
off the whiteness of her throat ; her golden hair was bound 
gracefully about her head, and behind her ear she had 
jdaced a bunch of red berries and green leaves. When 
Bisson entered and taking her soft white hands in his 


A SHADOW OH THE SHOW. 


225 

saluted her on both her cheeks, she laughed, blushed, and 
drooping her eyelids, glanced archly into his face. 

“ Tell me, M’sieur,” she said merrily, “ do you bestow 
those salutes freely ? ” 

“ Why, Euphrasie ? ” 

She laughed again ; and taking him to a retired corner 
of the room, offered him a seat, and then sat down beside 
him. 

“ Tell me first,” she said, looking at him in her most 
bewitching manner, “ who was the pretty girl I saw with 
you last night — at the midnight mass ? ” 

Bisson looked uncomfortable. In his admiration of 
Euphrasie’s charms, he had for the moment forgotten last 
night’s adventure, and he was not ready with a reply. So 
he answered with a question. 

“ What took there, Euphrasie ? ” 

“Ah, you did not expect to see me? ” she said, raising 
her brows and smiling strangely. “ It was by merest 
accident I went, be sure, for I generally go to our great 
chapel in Hantour, which on the whole, I think, is brighter 
and prettier ; though, for that matter, the ceremony was 
performed last night tolerably well ; but the pain binit was 
baked too hard, and rendered unfit for a person to eat. 
But you have not answered my question,” she continued, 
quietly fixing her eyes on him, “who was your beUf. aniicV'’ 
“ You think her pretty ? ” 

“Tolerably ; and you do, is it not ? ” 

Bisson shrugged his shoulders, and displaying his rings, 
softly stroked his mustache. 

“ One cannot judge so well of one’s relations ! ” 

Then she is related to you ? ” 

“ Assuredly ; she is my cousin. An English girl, who 
was left an orphan, and has lately come to France ! ” 

Euphrasie, glancing slyly into his face, smiled, but said 
nothing ; and Bisson, glad of the reprieve, turned the con- 
versation to other things. Nor was the subject again 
alluded to that night. If Euphrasie had her own sus- 
picions as to the identity of the girl, they affected her 
little, for that night business was brisk, she was in her 
brightest temper, and her smiles rained down like sun- 
shine. She sat by his side for a time, laughing and chat- 


226 


THE DARK COLLEEK. 


ting, and later on, played billiards with him in the room 
adjoining the cafe, until at length Bisson heard the great 
town clock chime twelve. Again saluting Euphrasie, he 
made his way into the street. It was too late to return to 
Bernise that night, and although the good captain had 
taken plenty to warm him, he felt the night air chilly ; so 
without any qualms of conscience, he made his way to his 
rooms in a cabaret in Hantour, saying to himself that he 
would return to Bernise the next morning. 

But the next morning, calling at the cafd of the Fleur- 
de-Lys on his way to the diligence office, he found Euphra- 
sie adorned with his silk cloak and coral ornaments, pre- 
paring for a walk ; with his usual gallantry, he offered to 
bear her company, and in the end he delayed his return 
home until another day. 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 


“how like a winter hath thine absence been.” 

OR several days the Christmas festivities were contin- 



^ ued. From dawn till night the streets of Hantour 
were crowded with merry-makers. The cafes full to over- 
flowing, and regularly every night, when the virtuous cafd- 
keepers were obliged* to turn their jovial guests into the 
streets, new clamor and shouting and singing commenced, 
and prevented all good citizens from sleeping sound. 
After the coming in of the New Year, the festivities ceas- 
ed, and the usual jog-trot of trade commenced ; carts rat- 
tled up and down the streets, mules laden with market 
produce gravely trudged to town ; the pretty grisettes 
again tripped off in the early morning to take their places, 
solemn-faced, behind the counters of the shops ; and Cap- 
tain Bisson, doubtless measuring his conduct by that of his 
neighbors, once more bethought himself of returning to his 
quiet fireside. But when once he had found himself com- 
fortably settled in Hantour, with the cafd of the Fleur-de- 
Lys close at hand, the good Captain had lacked the moral 


HOW LIKE A WINIER;^ ETC. 


227 

courage to put into execution his idea of so soon returning 
toliis home. 

It was a dull life which he had been compelled to lead 
in Bernise ; a dull life, that is to say for /«>;/, though, of 
course, it was well enough for Morna, who had been un- 
accustomed to civilized society. For himself, the life at 
Hautour, and at the cafe of the Fleur-de-Lys was far more 
suitable. So, after he had written t6 Morna, saying that 
business kept him from home for some days, he gave him- 
self up to private enjoyment and reckless flirtation. In 
the morning he walked with Euphrasie, in the evening, 
retiring to a remote corner of the cafe, he sat by her side 
or watched her at work. That any sinister motive should 
be attributed to his conduct, Captain Bisson did not con- 
jecture, for was not the cafe a public place of resort, and 
was not Euphrasie, as it were, public property ? Wiiy, 
several times he had seen her laughing and talking even 
with the mate, Nicole Louandre, who came thither, like 
himself, to play dominoes, and drink cafe noir. 

At last, when New Year’s Day came, Bisson, like his 
neighbors, thought it wise to quit pleasure for a time, and 
to return to duty ; in other words, to pay a short visit to 
Morna, whom he had left to pass through the festive sea- 
son alone. So, calling at the cafe' of the Fleur-de-Lys, he 
saluted Euphrasie, as was now his habitual custom, and 
told her of his intended departure. The girl, looking into 
his face, smiled strangely, as she said : 

“ It is a dull place, Bernise ; 7na foi, I could not exist 
there, but if you have fi-iends., why then it is different. 
Farewell, dear^M’sieur. It will seem dull without you, I 
aver ; but when you return to Hantour, why then you will 
be welcome here ! ” 

And while elated at the ring of sorrow in her voice, the 
good captain made his way into the streets, Euphrasie, 
thrusting her hands into her' pockets, and dreamily finger- 
ing her coins, shrugged her shoulders, and wisely shook 
her head over the degenerate characters of mankind. 

‘CT//, vion Dieu, they are wretches, these men,” she 
murmured ; “ and he — well, he is as bad as the rest : but 
he is pleasant, and that, in a measure, atones.” 

Having decided to treat him with her accustomed favor 


228 


THE DARK COLLEEN. 


when he should r.e-appear, she issued from her room, and 
went again to her work. 

When he reached his home, Captain Bisson found 
Morna by no means so contented as he had left Euphrasie. 
Her face was pale, and there was a troubled look in her 
eyes, and when she took his hand he felt that she was 
trembling violently. 

“ I am glad — O, I am so glad you have come ! ” she 
said, in a strangely passionate voice. 

Looking into her face Bisson asked : 

“ Why, what is the matter, Morna ? ” Still she nervous- 
ly held his hand in hers, as she replied, 

“I did not think 3-011 would stay away from me at 
Christmas tide ! ” 

“ But when one has business, Morna.” 

“ Ah, that is it ; but it has been very lonely here for 
me. Although the people have been merry, and the shops 
looked gay — wh}’-, all I have done is sit b}" the fire and 
think of my home.” 

‘‘ Of what ? ” asked Bisson, quickly. 

“ Of Eagle Island — 3^011 were not there at Christmas 
time, and 3^ou did not see the fun. Every 3^ear Father 
Moy comes over and says Mass in the little chapel of Our 
Lad3', and the Feast house is made to look bright, and we 
have plenty of dancing and singing, for Barron is there 
with his tambourine, and Mr. O’Cloaskev with his flute, and 
old Shamus with his pipes, for the cattle are all pent up, 
and the boats secured, and there is no work done.” 

As he listened, Bisson’s lip curled into a sarcastic 
smile. Eagle Island was by no means amongst his most 
pleasant reminiscences. 

Bah ! they are savages, those people,” he replied, 
“or little better, that is. It is a pity 3^ou were not born in- 
a better place ! ” 

“ Better than Eagle Island ? ” returned Morna, with 
flushing cheeks. “ Sure, I think it is the best place in the 
whole world ; ” then, noting the sneer on Bisson’s face, 
she continued sadl}', “ You told me once that you thought 
it beautiful, too ! ” 

“ Probabl3^” he replied, shrugging his shoulders, and 
abstractedly turning the rings upon his fingers : “ one 


229 


HOW LIKE A WhYTER;' ETC. 

likes to visit savage climes — occasionally. I still think it 
a pity, ma f/iie, that you were not reared elsewhere ; but as 
that cannot be altered, you might at least cease to think so 
much of the place and — the people.” 

“ Forget my home, my father, all my friends ? ’’ she 
asked, slowly ; and Bisson smiling, replied : 

Sacre, you might do worse, Morna, or if you wish to 
think of them, do not trouble 77ieH' and he put her hand 
impatiently away. 

For a moment Morna remained silent, then she turned 
to him again. 

“ The thought of my home was all I had to comfort me 
while you were away,” she said, “ I have been horribly 
frightened since you went.” 

“Frightened — how ” asked Bisson, carelessly. 

“ There is a strange man watches me about wherever I 
go, and whatever I do.” 

“ A man ! ” echoed Bisson, with rather more interest in 
his 'voice. 

“ Yes, a man. It was on the night of the midnight 
mass I saw him first, and then you know he followed us 
from the chapel into the town, but when I told you to look 
lie was gone. Well, I thought I might be wrong then, and 
I thought of it no more ; but on Christmas night after you 
were away I went out to buy bread, and I saw the figure 
following me again, and I hastened home ; but several 
times since then it has followed me, and now I fear to 
leave the house at all. When I pause it pauses, and when 
1 turn my head to look it shrinks away ; so the last two 
days 1 have kept to the house entirely, because I am 
afraid 1 ” 

Her voice was low, and trembling with fear ; but Bis- 
son, patting her on the cheek, pooh-pooh’d her fears. 

“ People can walk about the streets without watching 
you, my Morna — it is your fancy ! ” 

“ So you said before, and so I thought at first ; buit now 
I know it is not, — for since I have not gone into the street 
I have seen him sometimes standing yonder in the shadow 
looking at the house ! ” 

“ And what is this man like, then } ” 

“ I do not know, — he keeps so far away.’’ 


230 


THE DARK COLLEEN. 


Bisson, pulling at his mustache, looked dreamily at 

her. 

“ If you are afraid, you must not go so much into the 
streets — that is all.” 

“ But I shall not fear now you have come ; it was only 
when I was alone.” 

“ I cannot stay always with you — that is impossible ! ” 

“ Then you will take me away, will you not t ” 

“ No, that is impossible, too, as I said before.” 

“ But you will not leave me here again ? ” she asked, 
anxiously. 

“ Certainly, where else would I leave you?” 

“ Sure I should be afraid to stay.” 

Sacre exclaimed Bisson, impatiently. “You are 
foolish, Morna, and talk like a child you live as other 
women live, and should be content.” 

Morna made no reply, but she turned away her head 
to hide the tears which trembled on her lashes. It was 
not hi;5 words which wounded her so much as the cold, 
hard voice in which the}'’ were spoken, the loveless look 
by which they were accompanied. From the first moment 
of his entrance, she had felt that more changes had taken 
place in him, though what had wrought them she could 
not tell ; but they chilled the ardor of her greeting, and 
made his kindness seem forced. When he looked into 
her face, it was not with the old ardent look which had 
won her love, but with a cold scrutinizing gaze which cut 
her to the heart. She had looked forward to this meeting 
as one of happiness, but it had begun with coldness, and 
it ended with altercation. She was sorry now that she 
had mentioned her fears at all since it had led to this. 
So brushing away the tears which came to her eyes, she 
turned to him, and held forth her hands. 

“Sure, this is the first night you have been at home 
for a week. Do not be angry ! ” she said. 

But Bisson, raising his brows, and taking no notice of 
her extended hands, replied, 

“ I am not angry, Morna.” 

The bright look which for a moment had animated her 
face, faded away. What had changed him so ? could it 
be that her words rankled still within him, and kept him. 


EUPHRAS/E MAKES IfER CALCULATIONS. 3^1 

from smiling upon her as he used to do before ? Was he 
so unforgiving, and so unkind ? Besides she had meant 
no harm. She had spoken out of fear, for she was afraid; 
but if he wished her to stay there, while he was away, 
why, of course, she would do so — anything, in fact, rather 
than incur his displeasure as she had done to-night. So 
taking his hand and pressing it fondly between her own, 
she said softly, 

“ I will do anything 3-011 wish, if you will but be kind 
to me now ! ” 

“Be kind to }^ou, Morna ? ” 

“ Yes ; do not be angry to-night, and I will never ask 
to go away again.” 

Bisson withdrew his hand impatiently. 

“ My dear Morna, you are foolish. Have 1 not told 
you that I am not angry ” 

“Yes; but—” 

“ You did not think I spoke the truth, my dear? ” the 
captain interposed, sarcasticall)' curling his lip. “Well, 
you were wrong, and you may rest content.” 

But Morna found it impossible to follow the sage 
advice. A few hours later, when she had retired to rest, 
she sat down upon the floor, and leaning her head on the 
bedside, sobbed most bitterly. And Captain Bisson, 
finishing his cigar by the fireside, deemed himself bete in- 
deed, for deserting the brightness of the Fleur-de-Lys for 
such sorry comfort as this. 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

EUPHkASIE makes her CALCULAriONS. 

A S the Christmas festivities had come to an end, and 
the keen cold of the winter months had passed away. 
Captain Bisson began to think again of sailing away upon 
the sea. With all its advantages, life on shore had never 
been much to his taste ; and now, for some reason which 
he could not explain even to himself, he wished more than 
ever to get away. So the “ Hortense ” was once more 


232 


THE DARK COLLEEN. 


loaded with her cargo, and otherwise prepared for a voy- 
age ; and the captain, under the pretence of superintend- 
ing the work, again left Morna cooped up in the little 
house in Bernise, and settled himself for a time in Han- 
tour. 

Every night after his work was done, he strolled up to 
the cafe of the Fleur-de-Lys, and sitting contentedly in a 
corner of the room, sipped his coffee or cognac, and sought 
chance chats with Euphrasie. Indeed, so regular was the 
captain in his attendance at the house, and so assiduous 
were his attentions to his fair hostess herself, that the 
finger of gossip began to be pointed at him ; and amidst 
those who frequented the cafe, faint whisperings were soon 
afloat that the light which drew his feet thither, was shed 
from the bright eyes of Euphrasie Monier. 

Even Madame Monier herself, who in most things 
where money was not concerned, seemed dull enough, began 
to speculate upon the probable goal to which Bisson’s daily 
visits to the cafe might ultimately lead. Of the usual 
course of flirtation as practised by Euphrasie in the cafe, 
she had had a pretty wide experience ; and at first she 
had been inclined to regard her assiduous encouragement 
of Captain Bisson in this frivolous light, but by dint of 
quiet observation and scrutiny, the keen-witted old lady 
began to observe a considerable diversion on Bisson’s 
part from the usual course of things, and very soon, with 
an inward chuckle at her own quiet cunning, she congratu- 
lated herself on the fact that the dandified, aristocratic 
captain had become completely entangled in the net of 
Euphrasie’s charms. 

It was not without considerable satisfaction, it must be 
confessed, that the old lady finally made this discovery. 
Like all affectionate mothers, Madame had set herself the 
arduous task of selecting an eligible parti for Euphrasie, 
and in Captain Bisson she confidently believed that she 
saw the prize for w'hich she had been so patiently waiting. 
Looking at the case from a practical point of view, as did 
Madame, it seemed eminently satisfactory. Bisson was a 
favorite of fortune in so far as he possessed a considerable 
share in the owmership of the Hortense ; ” he w'as, more- 
over, of good family, and he had pleasant manners. Ah, 


FA^PHRA.^IF. MAKFS HER CALC ALA T/OXS 


yes, Madame acknowledged that be was indeed very pre- 
sentable and very courteous withal, for did he not salute 
her own rouged cheeks with apparently as much respect 
as those of Euphrasie herself, and did he not listen to 
her with deference on all occasions ? Judging the case 
impartially then, Madame avowed that she had cause to 
be proud indeed; and having thus happily arranged the 
affair in her mind, she nodded her head in wonderful satis- 
faction. 

And Euphrasie } 

Bisson’s graceful manners and complimentary speeches 
had, as we have said, made a favorable impression on the 
mind of the pretty little coquette. Euphrasie, it must be 
confessed, was a child of art rather than a child of nature, 
brought up within the pale of lamp-light, rouge, padding 
and powder ; and though, of course, she was still young 
and full of natural charms, there was in prospect a time 
when she, like her mother, might display an unnaturally 
hectic color on her cheeks, and a padded bust not alto- 
gether in accordance with the outlines of nature. 

In tastes and feelings she was really very closely allied 
to our fastidious captain. It pleased her to look on Bis- 
son’s handsome face and graceful form, to listen to the 
pleasant ringing of his voice as he made those pretty little 
complimentary speeches in her ear, and above all it pleased 
her to watch the effect of her own charms on this hand- 
some piece of manhood. But when she saw that things 
were taking a graver turn, Euphrasie’s dimples and smiles 
began to die away. Being well-schooled in the usages of 
artificial or so-called civilized society, she was very quick 
to discover that she had made a deep and perhaps danger- 
ous impression on the sensitive heart of the sailor. Un- 
consciously she began to tremble and draw back. Al- 
though she had in her nature just as much sensuousness 
as might cause her considerable uneasiness of mind, were 
it allowed to influence her feelings, yet she possessed a still 
larger share of the sagacity of her worthy parent, and she 
was not the girl to throw her love away upon an object un- 
til she had weighed the matter carefully in her mind and 
perceived the right course to be adopted. So one night, 
after her mother had gone to bed, and she herself was 


THE DARK COLL HEX. 


234 

locked in her room alone, wrapped up in her warm white 
dressing-grown, with her hair glistening like gold-thread 
upon her shoulders, she sat down before the fire, turned 
her pretty naked toes up to the blaze, and holding forth 
her hand, enumerated upon her fingers the various points 
which might be said to favor the idea of the projected 
union. 

First and foremost, then, Bisson was good-looking : 
that certainly was an advantage, and Euphrasie struck it 
off on her forefinger as number one. In her eyes uii vilain. 
garcoii was a monstrosity whom she could not tolerate, and 
to whom she could, under no possible circumstances, have 
given her hand ; indeed, she had a wholesome detestation 
of all ill-favored things. 'Fhen, his tastes accorded pretty 
well with her own. True, she had once or twice observed 
him yawn when she had read him liny scraps from those 
charming tales in Le Eoye?' Franyais, her pet journal, and 
she knew that he had a decided liking for the wicked 
stories of Paul de Kock ; still as an outset against this, he 
had leaned against the creaky old piano in the back par- 
lor, and listened with evident satisfaction, while her pink 
fingers ran along the stained old ivoiy keys, or she sang to 
him in her thrilling high-toned voice dainty little scraps of 
Norman song. Again, he dressed well, and loved to see 
others well dressed. On the whole, then, their tastes did 
harmonize tolerably well ; so without more ado Euphrasie 
struck this off as recommendation number two. 

Having got thus far successfully, she searched about in 
her mind to see if she could discover any other “ just cause 
or impediment ” before she came to the final clause. He 
came of a good family, that was an advantage, and might 
be struck off as number three: for although of late years 
fortune had not been favorable to her, Euphrasie Monier 
liad sprung from a decidedly respectable stock, and the 
dainty little belle had no kind of a predilection for a m'esal- 
Diaiicc. 

And now came the last clause ; the last but most im- 
portant in Euphrasie's eyes. 4'he girl was too great a 
lover of the good things of this world ever to wish to look 
poverty in the face again. Once in her short life she had 
done .so, and that once had sufficed her. Besides. Euplira- 


E(7P//RAS/E AfAAES IfER rALCCLA 7/OXR. 




sie was quite enough of a philosopher to know that poverty 
and love cannot well dwell together, and even had it been 
otherwise she would have been quite content to renounce 
the amorous sentiment in exchange for the certainty which 
she certainly loved better — a sufficiency of the good things 
of the world. Had Captain Ih’sson therefore not been in 
a position to ensure her plenty to eat and fine clothes to 
wear, Euphrasie with a few regretful sighs for such uji bon 
ejifant^ would to a certainty have cast him out of her 
thoughts for ever — or still more likely, she would never 
have allowed her thoughts to dwell upon him at all. Had 
not several tolerably well-favored youths in Hantour 
offered to her their hands and hearts, but having at their 
command nothing more substantial, had not one and all 
met with an ignominious repulse ? 

On this score, at least, Captain Bisson did not seem 
likely to share the fate of his less fortunate rivals. He 
was a skilful seaman, repute averred ; — even if his fortune 
went, he could always, Euphrasie mentally added, earn a 
very fair income as sea-captain. The precise amount she 
could not exactly tell, but it would surely be sufficient to 
satisfy her moderate needs. Then he was part owner of 
the “ Hortense,'’ in time, perhaps, he might become sole 
owner, which would be a great thing, since it would ensure 
a very good competency for his widow' should the worthy 
captain during any of his voyages be suddenly taken to 
the bottom of the sea. Ab, Dieic I it was dreadful to think 
of such a contingency, and Euphrasie piously crossed her 
breast, but in this uncertain world such dreadful things do 
happen, and — ah, yes — it is as well to be prepared for the 
w'orst ! 

But now' came an additional question which Euphrasie 
had almost forgotten, but which might be sufficiently 
important to upset all her w'ell-formed plans. The girl 
with the black hair and strange dreamy eyes, w'hom through 
mere accident she had seen by the captain's side in the 
chapel at Bernise ! Who could she be ? — w'hat relation 
could she bear to him ? That Captain Bisson, when he had 
acknowdedged her to be his cousin had spoken the truth, 
Euphrasie did not for a moment suppose. His cousin, bah ! 
it was ludicrous to reflect he should think so to impose 


THR DARK COLLEEK. 


236 


upon her ; unless, indeed, she was his cousin and his sweet- 
heart too ! Much more likely she was his mistress — for 
Euphrasie knew the habits of sea-captains well. At the 
thought her bright eyes flamed for a moment with virtuous 
indignation. It was certainly very disheartening to think 
that a man like Captain Bisson, who with all his faults had 
certainly much to recommend him in the matrimonial mar- 
ket, should degrade himself by a connection so base. But 
travelling back to the point in question, Euphrasie began 
to consider whether, if this worst supposition were true, it 
- would prove an absolute barrier to the union which she so 
calmly contemplated. After all, why should it ? If she 
were to refuse Captain Bisson and search the world as 
Diogenes had done, would she find in it one man who was 
virtuous ? No, she firmly believed she would not. They 
were all so bad and so wicked, and if this which she sup- 
posed was true, why Captain Bisson was no better and no 
worse than all the rest. And then, he had so many things 
to recommend him ! So Euphrasie sat weighing the matter 
calmly in her mind, and when the last clause had been 
analyzed, and her vision had turned inward and surveyed 
the whole matter, she felt a glow of satisfaction steal over 
her. Rising from her seat she bound up her streaming 
hair, cast off her perfumed clothes, and sought her rest ; 
but long ere she laid her golden head on the dainty lace 
pillow, she had finally resolved to accept the heart and 
fortune of Captain Bisson whenever he should think fit to 
lay them at her feet. 


CHAPTER XXXIX, 


AND SECURES HER PRIZE. 



HE event which Euphrasie, with such characteristic 


-L sang froid, had contemplated, was by no means 
near at hand. The winter-time passed away, and the sum- 
mer approached. The prim squares of trees, enbosoming 
the farms in the Grand Val burst into their bright green 
foliage ; the square fields were covered with the brightest 


AA^D SECURES HER PRIZE. 


237 


yellow colza, interposed with glaring blood-red poppies ; 
and upon all the brilliant sun-rays fell, scorching the pave- 
ments of the streets and the glaring red brick buildings, 
and heightening the variegated colors of the costumes of 
those who flocked into Bernise. 

Several months had come and gone since Morna had 
returned from her expedition on the sea ; the “ Hortense ” 
had sailed again, and again returned in safety; yet still 
matters had taken no decided turn. Morna, her cheeks 
grown a good deal paler, her eyes more sad, still dwelt al- 
most constantly alone in the little house at Bernise ; while, 
somewhat impatiently, Euphrasie now awaited the declar- 
ation which she had formerly prophesied as so near. 
Matters had certainly come to a decided standstill. For 
no sooner had Captain Bisson realized the position into 
which he seemed to be drifting, than he very properly 
paused to reflect. Although he had a good deal less con- 
scientiousness than most men, his regard for his own fair 
person was such as to keep him from acts of a criminal, 
and possibly dangerous nature. 

That Morna herself was a superfluity with which he could 
very easily dispense, he had decided long ago ; he was 
also equally assured as to the desirability of winning the 
hand of Euphrasie Monier ; but were he to do so, as affairs 
stood, he was not so sure that his conduct would be con- 
sidered spotless in the eye of the law. Had Morna been 
but his mistress, as Euphrasie suspected, the matter would 
have been settled easily enough ; it was that ugly marriage 
ceremony which stared him in the face, and made him 
pause whenever he was on the brink of a declaration to 
Euphrasie. 

His conduct meanwhile to Morna was not of the most 
examplary kind. Night after night, day after day, he left 
her there alone, while he repaired to Hantour, to the little 
cafe of the Fleur-de-Lys, and flirted with Euphrasie. Mor- 
na, the innocent cause of all the complication, saw the 
changes as they came, but could not fathom the cause ; 
she felt that something was wrong, which dated from that 
memorable night of the midnight mass, and she trusted in 
the mercy of (')ur Lady to set things right again. That 
thev would come right, if she prayed faithfully, she had no 


THE DARK COLLEEN. 


238 

doubt. As Captain Bisson had once loved her, it did not 
occur to her that he could permanently change, since she 
herself had not changed. 

And yet, despite the strength of her convictions, she 
could not shake off the feeling of loneliness which oppressed 
her when she sat alone at nights, watching at the window, 
and looking wistfully into the fire ; and at such times her 
thoughts would travel far away to Eagle Island, to the 
days when she had wandered on the hills or swam out in 
the sea, or climbed the cliffs with Truagh ; and at such 
times a great longing would come upon her to go back to 
her home and her people. 

“ Sure, if I could see them once again I could be hap- 
py,” she thought, forgetting that her happiness rested not 
solely upon them. Had Bisson been to her then what he 
had been to her on Eagle Island, she would have been at 
peace even in that strange land amongst strange people. 
It was love for which her soul was craving, the love which 
had been hers, but was hers no longer. 

It is impossible to say how long matters would have 
continued thus, had they not been suddenly and unexpect- 
edly brought to a crisis. One night when Bisson was draw- 
ing on his gloves, as usual, preparing for his visit to Han- 
tour. Morn a came quietly to his side, and asked, • 

“ Will you not stay here with me to-night } ” 

“ Why ? ” asked Bisson, turning his blue eyes coldly 
upon her. 

“ Because — have you forgotten i* — it is just two years to- 
day, since that day when I found you washed ashore on 
Eagle Island ! ” 

Eagerly and trustfully she raised her dark face to his ; 
but the light from his eyes shone coldly and hatefully upon 
her, and his shoulders shrugged as he demanded. 

And then ? ” 

Morna’s dark cheek flushed crimson, her eyes flashed 
brightly as she returned the look. 

“ I thought, maybe, you would like to remember the 
day when the Holy Virgin sent you ashore to me ! ” 

A strange forbidding expression came across the man’s 
face. 

‘‘ Mon Dieii / do you think I am likely to forget ? ” 


A.VD SKCCfRP.S HER PRIZE. 




And you will not leave me here, to-night ; but we 
will be happy once again, as we were on Eagle Island ? ” 

Bisson’s handsome face grew more clouded ; almost 
roughly he pushed her hands aside. 

“ This is not Eagle Island, Dieu merci^’’ he said, “ but 
a place where people act rationally. If you wish not to 
make me angry, let that time pass ! ” 

Morna’s dark eyes opened in wonder. 

“ Why, what have I done ? ” 

“ You do not understand, that is just it, you are htte like 
those savage islanders, that you have left behind ; and 
you cannot appreciate me, ah, God ! no ! It is a pity you 
ever left the island, since you are not fit to be away ! ” 

“Emile!” 

Ere the name had passed from Morna’s astonished 
lips, Bisson had left the house ; hurrying down the street, 
he passed on foot to the road leading to Hantour. Urged 
on by some unconquerable impulse which stirred within 
him ; angry, excited, shamed by the remembrance of the 
time which Morna had innocently recalled to him, the 
time when he had been befooled into marrying a savage, 
into tying around his neck the stone which seemed des- 
tined to drag him down ; he passed swiftly along the 
road until he entered at length the crowded streets of 
Hantour, and stood before the door of the cafe. 

All here was light and gaiety, laughter and good cheer. 
Glasses jingled, dice-boxes rattled, and billiard-balls 
clashed, the hum of voices filled the room, and above the 
hum rang out the shrill clear laughter of Euphrasie 
Monier herself, as she stood raining her smiles, not upon 
the company in general, but upon a man who sat grimly 
sipping absinthe., and whom, at the first glance, Bisson 
recognized as Nicole Louandre. 

Pushing his way amidst the throng, Bisson seated him- 
self at one of the little marble tables, and called for 
refreshment. When she saw him there, Euphrasie ap- 
proached, bent her smiling face close down to his, and 
whispered in his ear. 

“ Alas, mon ami, but you look triste to-night. Is it 
that something has angered you ? Wait a moment.” And 
she tripped off, and returned again with a small decanter 


THE DARK COLLEEH. 


240 

and glass, which she set before him. “ See, M’sieur,^’ sh^ 
cried, blinking her bright eyes, “ drink from that and you 
will be better; ’tis what I keep for poor maman there, 
when she is triste^ as you are ! ” 

And Madame Monier, perched' in her little glass box, 

. and peering forth upon the scene, nodded her wizened old 
head approvingly, in some admiration of her daughter’s 
devices. 

While gazing into the girl’s face, Bisson’s soul ‘grew 
bitterer still. The contrast between this bright-eyed little 
beauty and Morna, seemed now more marked than it had 
been heretofore. Morna was hete^ he confessed to him- 
self ; in civilization and culture, so immeasurably inferior 
to himself, that a life-long intercourse with her was quite 
out of the question. Of course, the worthy captain was 
quite willing to admit that all this should have been per- 
ceived before, and so in a measure it had been. Indeed, 
had it not been for Morna’s pertinacity, he would never 
have married her at all, and the subsequent complica- 
tions would have been saved ! Could he only make up 
his mind that the marriage was illegal, all the future would 
be smooth enough. He would then marry Euphrasie, and 
settle down decently ; and Morna, why she could go back 
to that savage island of hers, and lead the life for which, 
in the order of things, she had evidently been predestined. 

All this passed rapidly through his brain while his 
blue eyes rested pensively upon the face of the vivacious 
French girl, and he listened dreamily to the chattering of 
her voice. Euphrasie, quick to apprehend, saw at once 
that something had gone wrong, and perceived also a way 
of bringing her charms into play. So while her customers 
were doing their best to outvie each other in disposing of 
the various good things of the establishment, Euphrasie, 
taking the captain into the deserted back-parlor sat 
down beside him, and folding her white hands upon the 
arm of his chair, looked up half-brightly, half-sadly into 
his face. 

“ When you are trisfe, you do right to come here ! ” 
she said, “ for we are old friends, n'est-ce pas, and under- 
stand one another. It is a good thing to have friends 
when one feels lonely. 


AA'/? S/^:CCrA^ES IfER PRIZE. 


24T 


“Blit you have few friends, Euphrasie.” 

“ Ah, no, indeed ; — that is a misfortune for which I 
should never cease to grieve had I not poor maman there 
to console. Women are uncharitable to women, M’sieur. 
Were I to give up the cafe and starve, and let poor 
maman starve also, I should have friends in Hantour ; but 
then, look you, I should have no bread. It is because I 
earn the bread for poor maman and myself that they will 
not look at me.” 

“The women, not the men ?” 

Not at all, the men are kind, and for that, too, the 
women hate me. They forget that we are helpless, ma- 
man and I, and are glad to take kindness whenever it is 
offered. But they are cowards too, for all that, and — 
were I to marry and have a husband to protect me, they 
would not dare to treat me as they do. It is all because 
I am a woman, and alone ! ” 

As she concluded her speech Euphrasie turned aside 
her head, and extracting from her apron pocket a finely 
laced handkerchief, applied it gently to her eyes. As she 
did so she felt her companion’s arm sympathetically press 
her waist, and heard his low voice murmur softly, 

“ Euphrasie ! ” 

She did not stir nor answer ; too consummate an ac- 
tress to break the charm. She had been waiting long 
enough for this, too long, in fact, to spoil the declaration 
by any rash act of her own. All she did, and this she 
did very gently, was to withdraw the handkerchief the 
tenth part of an inch from the corner of her left eye and 
take a cursory glance through the glass at the top of the 
door to see if any one was looking. Having satisfied 
herself on this point, she resigned her face to the cambric 
folds again and waited to hear more. She had not long 
to wait. The wily captain had at last met his match, and 
was entirely thrown off his guard. Having once taken 
the plunge he seemed determined to face the worst. The 
arm which was wound about her waist tightened, and a 
soft mustache fluttered about her delicate pink cheek. 

“ My Euphrasie, will you let me be your protector, will 
you marry ma c/ihr ?” 

The girl’s slight frame trembled, but still she neither 
16 


242 


THE DARK COLLEEN. 


moved nor spoke, and Bisson roused by her silence grew 
more vehement. 

“ Euphrasie, mon ange^ answer me. I tell you I adore 
you, and if you take me I will try to make you happy as a 
queen.” 

The cambric handkerchief fluttered down to Euphrasie’s 
breast at last, and her tearless eyelids drooped. Half 
turning her head towards Bisson, she softly said. 

“ Ma foi., it is not for love alone that I must marry, 
for look you, I could not desert poor maman there ; and 
it is hard, I know, to keep up a household on small means. 
If I married I must leave the cafe and then — ” 

“ Yes, you should leave the cafe, Euphrasie, and 
Madame should leave too, since I have enough to keep 
you as a lady should be kept. I have a good share of 
the “ Hortense,” beside my wage as sea-captain. ' If you 
will become my wife, Euphrasie, I will settle the half of 
my fortune upon you before we are wed.” 

That settled the matter at once for Euphrasie. After 
a little more affected hesitation she gently turned her face 
to his and held up her rosy lips for his salutation. Tak- 
ing her soft cheeks between his palms, he bent his face 
close to hers and was about to take the kiss offered so 
freely by his betrothed, when suddenly his hold relaxed 
and he seemed to hesitate and tremble. 

“ Emile, what is the matter ? ” cried Euphrasie, flutter- 
ing like a timid bird. Hastily recovering himself, Bisson 
laughed softly, patted her cheek with his white forefinger, 
and kissed her lips without more ado. 


CHAPTER XL. 

NICOLE LOUANDRE MAKES A PROPOSAL. 

TJ'ORsome time after her husband had hurried away 
^ from Bernise, Morna stood like one suddenly and 
unexpectedly awakened from a dream. At last she shook 
off her apathy, threw up the window, and leaning on the 
sill looked out. 


NICOLE LOU AND RE MAKES A PROPOSAL. 


243 

It was a bright clear night ; a soft summer breeze blew, 
and the cloudless sky was studded with innumerable stars. 
The street lamps flickered below, casting faint gleams 
upon the clean white pavement, and the figures which pass- 
ed quietly up and down. There were plenty of passers-by 
to-night, for it had been a fete day, and many of the shops 
were closed, and the youths and girls who were cooped up 
behind the counters all the week, went up and down the 
streets making the air gladsome with laughter and song. 

Leaning upon the sill, ]\Iorna stared vacantly upon the 
moving mass of life, listened dreamily to the sound of the 
voices, now and again turning up her cheek to catch tlie 
soft night air. But the sight of her face at the window 
soon attracted the attention of passers-by, and Morna 
noting at length that many pairs of eyes were turned 
curiously upon her, closed the window, drew the curtain, 
and lighting a lamp, sat down before the lire to think over 
all that had taken place. Matters had come to a crisis 
now, and she could hide from herself the truth no longer. 
She was obliged to acknowledge that the great love which 
Bisson had borne her had slowly but surely dwindled away. 
Ever since that time when he liad taken her to sail upon the 
sea she had noted the change, and knew no means of 
warding off the e\'il which she saw approaching. Could 
it be that she herself had been to blame? that through 
her own stupidity all these troubles had come ? It might 
be so. If they had remained on Eagle Island, she 
thought all would lia\'e been well, but he had brought her 
away to a land of which she could know nothing, surround- 
ed her with people whom she could not understand. To 
him they were the same as kindred, their ways were his 
ways ; while her sympathies, she knew, could not be elicit- 
ed for strangers whose tongue she could not speak, but re- 
mained with those whom she liad left behind her, and 
whom he had designated her “ savage” kin. 'Fhough she 
had said nothing, she had noted his lordly contempt for 
the inhabitants of Eagle Island ; it had sometimes made 
her heart very hard against him, and somewhat chilled the 
love which she felt for him. If he despised them, doubt- 
less he despised lier, since she was of them ; and yet he 
had voluntarily given her his love, and made her his wife. 


THE DATA' COLLEEiV. 


244 

Well, periiaps, after all she was the most to Dlame fot 
those sad changes which had been wrought in him. When 
he called her “ stupid ; ” he had no doubt spoken what 
was literally true, and though, of course, the truth was not 
altogether pleasant to hear and kndw, she resolved, with 
her usual strength of character, to accept it uncomplaining- 
ly, and to endeavor to act more wisely in times to come. 
If he would only take her back to Eagle Island, and dwell 
there with her! Then perhaps the 'old love which had 
brought them together might return again. 

Quickly and confusedly the thoughts passed through her 
brain, causing her feverish unrest. Rising to her feet, she 
paced the room for a time, but at length, unable longer to 
bear her loneliness, she left the house as Bisson had done 
before her. 

Once in the street, and among the crowd, her restless- 
ness was in a measure allayed. Without knowing whither 
she was going, she walked on with the stream of people, 
keeping her eyes fixed sadly upon the ground. So busy 
was she with her own thoughts, that she did not notice a 
man, who, at sight of her face beneath the strong flame 
of the lamp-light, had turned and followed, keeping her 
well in sight. In a sort of stupor she walked on and on, 
until the throng of people grew less, the sound of voices 
became fainter, and the lamplight faded away. When she 
paused she found that she had left Bernise behind her, 
and had wandered some distance along the high road to 
Hantour. All around her was very quiet, but she saw the 
lights of the village flickering near, and heard the faint 
hum of the bustling crowd. 

And now that quietness reigned around her, the old 
harrowing thoughts again besieged her brain tenfold. At 
last she turned to retrace her steps and plunge again into 
the midst of the bustling crowd, but she hacl only walked 
a few steps along the road when she paused suddenly, and 
drew back. There standing close beside the hedge-row 
which enclosed the road, was a dark, motionless form, 
watching her. And now she remembered, what she had 
before forgotten, that mysterious figure which for months 
past had dogged her footsteps, haunted her like a restless 
spirit, causing her such fear. Remembering this, she found 


XJCOLK T.OrAXDRE MAKES A PROPOSAL. 245 

It difficult to suppress a cry. Gathering together all her 
courage, she was about to hurry past, when she felt a hand 
laid upon her arm. Raising her eyes, she beheld close to 
hers the sullen face of Nicole Louanclre. 

As she recognized the mate, Alorna felt relieved. Hard 
and cruel as she knew this man to be, he had inspired her 
with no fear ; besides he had done many favors for her on 
board the Hortense.” Just then, however, his presence 
was not desirable to her. What could he want of ^ 
She knew almost nothing of him, had scarcely seen him 
since she had left the “ Hortense,” and, although he ap- 
peared before her in such a mysterious manner, it did not 
occur to her now to couple him with the mysterious shadow 
which had haunted her so long. Looking in his face, she 
asked in her usual gentle tones, if he sought Captain Bis- 
son ? 

Somewhat nervously for him, Louandre passed his hand 
across his face, and sullenly returned her look. 

No 71 pas,’’ he returned in broken English, and in a 
thick, guttural voice ; “ for I know where to find de capitaine. 
I was come to de house ior you !” 

“You want me ? ” 

“ Yees — dat is so ! ” he said, relieved ; “ I want you — 
I want you for a long time, but then I thought he want you 
too, and I spoke not. It is all shange now, dat is why I 
speak.” 

The sentences were jerked out quickly, nervously, and 
then the speaker paused, and there was silence. Morna 
listened, quite unable to comprehend the drift of the man’s 
speech. When he paused, she, still looking questioningly 
into his face, asked, 

“ Yes, you have said you want me — what is it for ? ” 

“ Ah, dat is what I come to say,” continued Louandre. 
“I am only de mate — a mate is not as good as de capi- 
taine, but I shall be de capitaine some day, and dat is 
something, voyez vous I ” 

He paused again, but Morna shook her head. 

“ I don’t know what you mean,” she said, “ can’t you 
tell me plainly what you wish ? ” _ ' 

Louandre gave an awkward grin, and fixed his eyes on 
hers. 


246 


TlfE DARK COLLEEX. 


“ I want you to come wid me, and not to live any more 
wid de capitaine, to marry me ! ” 

To fnaj'ry you ? ” repeated Morn a, amazed. 

Louandre nodded assent. 

I ask no woman to marry me before, but I ask you. 
I am not riche, but I am true ; and to you, look you, I 
should be kind ! ” 

He paused again, and Morna still stood before him in 
silence — more puzzled than before. At length she spoke, 
not angrily, since the man seemed under a strange miscon- 
ception, for which she could not account. 

“ Why do you talk to me like that,” she said, “ when 
you know I am married already ? ” 

It was now Louandre’s turn to look puzzled. 

MarrEd ” he repeated. 

And Morna answered, 

“ Yes, indeed ; sure it was easy for you to know that 
I was Captain Bisson’s wife, when I went on board the 
ship. If he knew that you had said this to me, he would 
be angry ; but if you go away and say no more, he shall 
not know.” 

He did not say dat,” said Louandre, still staring 
fixedly at her. “ ‘Not at all,’ dat is what he say when I 
ask him;” and then, seeing Morna about to hurry past, 
he put his hand on her arm again and detained her. “ If 
you take him — de capitaine — he care nothing for you, no- 
thing at all. I have v/atch him, and I know. He grow 
tired of you — and he love dat other — de girl in Hantour 
dat keep de Fleur-de-Lys ! ” 

The sentences were uttered quickly, while his hand 
detained her. As he spoke, her face grew pale — the arm 
which he held trembled. 

“ Is that true ? ” she asked quietly ; “ does he not stay 
on board the ship when he leaves me here alone ? ” 

Louandre shook his head. 

“ Ah, God ! not at all — he go to de Fleur-de-Lys, and 
make love to de girl. I have see him, and I know ! ” 

For a time, Morna said nothing, but standing before 
him, she looked half vacantly into his eyes. When Louan- 
dre said that Bisson had no care for her — he only told her 
what she had learned long before from Bisson’s looks and 


NICOLE LOUANDRE MANES A PROPOSAL. 247 

deeds — almost from his own lips ; but the incidental men- 
tion of a woman threw a new light on the matter, and 
seemed to solve the mystery which had puzzled her so 
long. Could it be that Bisson chafed at the bondage 
which kept him to her — and wished to break it through ? 
If what this man said was true, that must be the case. 
But was it true — or false ? — that was what she could not 
understand. It is hard to believe ill of those we love, and 
Morna found it hard indeed. Trembling, she came nearer, 
and, in her old appealing way, reached her hands out to 
the man and looked beseechingly into his face. 

“ I have told you the truth,” she said. “ He is my 
husband, and before we came here, we were very happy ; 
but here it has been different. Do not tell me what is 
untrue — that would be cruel ; but if you know what takes 
him so much away from me, and makes him — not so kind 
— sure it is right, since I am his wife, that you should tell 
me ! ” 

Louandre hung his head, and hesitated. Should he, 
or should he not tell her all he knew of Euphrasie ? The 
girl was foolishly fond of Bisson, that was clear ; and it 
might serve his purpose in turning her thoughts from 
Bisson to himself. It would punish Bisson, too, for lying 
about his marriage ; and as to Morna, well, it avouIcI be 
no cruelty to he?'^ for the captain cared nothing for her, 
and sooner or later she must know it, if she did not know 
it now. Even if there was no possibility of the disclosure 
bringing her affections to himself, Louandre felt that their 
sudden withdrawal from his rival would be a source of 
some consolation to him. Glancing at her again in his 
sullen way he said, 

“ He go to de Fleur-de-Lys — dat is certain ; he make 
love to de girl, dat is certain, too. He make love to her 
to-night — I see him — and if you come wid me, you shall 
see him too ! ” 

Without waiting for her reply, he turned and walked 
along the road in the direction of Hantour. For a mo- 
ment, Morna stood and watched him, uncertain whether to 
follow or to return quietly to her home. At length, how- 
ever, her eagerness to learn the truth of the man’s asser- 
tions caused her, ere he had faded from her sight, to fob 


TUn DARK COLL DDK. 


24S 

low in his footsteps. Like a black shadow the man stalked 
on before her, never once turning his head. The lanes 
were quiet and almost deserted, one or two straggling fig- 
ures approached, bade them ‘‘good night,” and passed on ; 
the lights of Bernise became dimmer and dimmer and be- 
gan to fade away. At last Morn a, finding herself sur- 
rounded by desolate marshes and fields, grew distrustful 
of her guide. Instead of stalking on as he had done at 
first, he had fallen back and kept her in sight. She paused, 
and he paused too. 

“ I can go no further,” she said. 

Louandre interposed, 

“ It is just two mile more — dat is all ! ” 

But Morna, in a trembling voice, wearily replied, 

“No, I am tired, I shall not go!” Quickly turning 
from the man, she retraced her steps and walked back 
into the darkness. 

Now more than ever she felt the strange web of events 
in which she had become entangled. Dazzled and con- 
fused, she did not feel herself able to grapple with the 
mysterious workings of so-called civilized life. The be- 
havior of Louandre especially was a mystery which she 
could not solve. If he were truthful, she must necessarily 
believe that her husband had played a most despicable 
part ; and though the man’s statements seemed to coin- 
cide with her fears, and to be in accordance with all that 
had gone before, Morna forced herself to think that they 
were all untrue, that when her husband returned to her 
and she had opened her heart to him and told him all, 
mutual love and peace would exist between them as it had 
done long ago. And though, of course, she knew that the 
vague dreams which had filled her brain when she dwelt 
on Eagle Island would never be realized now, that the 
bright world which she had pictured was but the unsub- 
stantial creation of her brain, she felt that, could she but 
regain half the love and peace which had once been hers, 
she would be content. Louandre must be the dark spirit 
who had come between them and worked all the evil. He 
must be a bad man, and yet in this civilised world there 
were many such as he. 

How often, while standing upon the crags of Eagle 


NICOLE J.OUANDRE MAKES A PROPOSAL. 


-49 

Island and 'looking into the hazy distance of the horizon, 
had she not pictured this world a bright fair land of peace ; 
free from even the petty jealousy and ill-feeling which had 
at times troubled the general calm of Eagle Island. She 
had thought to be happy here, to find all things bright and 
iDeautiful as she had found her lover ; but she felt now 
that like him the earth was fair to gaze upon, but that be- 
neath the shining surface there lurked a dark and sinful 
soul. She would persuade him to take her back to the 
home which she had left. Quitting all this sin and sor- 
row, they might dwell there peacefully as they had done 
before. 

Meanwhile Louandre, without having made another 
effort to detain her, strode on to Hantour, mentally sur- 
veying, like Morna, the scene which had just taken place. 
That Morna, when she had informed him of her marriage 
with Bisson, had spoken the truth, he did not for a mo- 
ment doubt ; for there was an honesty about the girl’s 
character which he could not misconstrue ; and he knew 
that Bisson was quite capable of falsehood of any kind. 
Now the question which the mate wished to solve was 
whether or not this marriage would interfere with his own 
wishes ? It would certainly prevent that marriage with 
Euphrasie Monier, on which Louandre knew the captain’s 
thoughts were decidedly fixed, and it might make Bisson 
less eager to part from Morna. On the whole, however, 
the mate decided that Bisson might be easily managed ; 
but could the girl ? Strange to say, Louandre had taken 
an absurd liking for her, and he had meant to marry her 
in all honesty. Now he knew that she could not be his 
wife, should he follow out his original plan and take her 
from the captain ? That was the question which puzzled 
him, but which he finally settled with the philosophical 
reasoning which suited his case. 

“It is better for her to be taken away from the man 
who loves some one else, and to come to the one that 
loves 


250 


THE DARK COLLEEN, 


CHAPTER XLI. 


BISSON DECIDES AN IMPORTANT QUESTION. 

HE church clocks had chimed twelve, the last remain- 



-L ing revellers had been thrust out of the little cafe' of 
the Fleur-de-Lys, when Captain Bisson, rather nervously 
saluting his fiancee, made his exit into the street, and 
sauntering slowly away began to survey the position into 
which the practised arts of the little French girl had so 
suddenly thrust him. 

That position was certainly not a very pleasant one as 
matters stood, and Bisson wondered not a little at his own 
want of ingenuity in allowing the net which had been 
woven for his capture to be so prematurely closed around 
him. It had been a foolish piece of work, he acknowl- 
edged, this speaking so soon. By waiting patiently, he 
might liave got matters perfectly clear before he com- 
promised himself with Euphrasie. But since coldness of 
heart in itself constitutes a sort of philosophy, Bisson was 
a sort of philosopher in his way, and instead of wasting 
his precious moments moaning over shadowy might have 
beens, he accepted the situation as it was, and began to 
ponder as to the best means of setting things ultimately 
right. 

The declaration to Euphrasie he did not altogether re- 
gret. It was time, he reflected, to abandon his youthful 
ways, and following the example of his neighbors to settle 
down as a respectable member of society with a wife who 
could appreciate him, — a respectable member of societv 
like himself, wise in worldly knowledge, and with a keen 
eye to worldly comforts and worldly gains. Now, who 
was so fitted to fill that post as Euphrasie Monier herself ? 
Was she not the very incarnation of charming worldliness, 
practical to a marked degree, and quite capable of holding 
her own in society ? Although the worthy captain was de- 
cidedly fascinated by her charms, he was by no means 
blind to the true nature of the elements which composed 


B/SSO.V DECIDES AM IMPORTAXU QUESTION. 251 

her somewhat shallow nature. He knew, none better, that 
had his position in the world been less favorable, her 
subtlest fascinations would never have been called up for 
his attraction at all, but would most assuredly have be- 
guiled and delighted some individual more favored by for- 
tune than himself. But this knowledge by no means les- 
sened his estimation of the prize which had fallen into his 
hands. As we have said, he was a philosopher shrewd in 
the ways of the world, content to accept the world’s goods 
without examining too closely whence they came. As 
Euphrasie was, so he accepted her, and for her sake he 
was willing to renounce his freedom for evermore. 

To all this there remained an insuperable obstacle — ah 
del., the Irish girl ! — the "'belle sauvage,'’' whom he, the civ- 
ilized man of the world, had in a moment of weakness been 
befooled into making his wife. But was she his wife in- 
deed, his true and lawful wife ? Could that ceremony, per- 
formed — well, against his will, and by a priest who was 
decidedly touched in the head, be proved to be binding 
in any form at all ? That was the question which Bisson 
asked himself, but which he could not answer. Could he 
prove satisfactorily that the marriage v/as null, why then 
all would be well, the girl would return to her savage kin, 
and he himself would be able to settle down respectably 
of the remainder of his life. But Bisson’s fears, as well as 
his practical knowledge, inclined him to the belief that the 
marriage was binding; and so the thread of his destiny 
became difficult to unravel. As far as he personally 
was concerned, even this difficulty could be overcome ; 
for if the girl’s silence could be "bought, and she could 
be induced to return quietly to her home, who would be 
the wiser for that ceremony performed on Eagle Island ? 
Avhat would interfere with his marriage with Euphra- 
sie ? Certainlv, he could not deny the fact that by con- 
duct so questionable he would be decidedly sullying the 
fair fame of Euphrasie herself, but this fact had little 
weight with him, since the girl would be none the wiser ; — 
where, he asked, would be the harm ? 

Knowing Morna as he did, however, Bisson felt that 
her silence" on this point was by no means procurable. 
Being hopelessly uncivilized, and possessing to a marked 


THE DARK COLLEEN. 


degree all the obtusity of the savage, the girl would nat-* 
urally fail to see things in their proper light, and decline 
to take the same view of matters as did her wiser lord. 
With unfaltering and unceasing instinct she would continue 
to cling to the man who had at first won her love. 

All this was so very annoying that the good captain 
felt quite skeptical as to the beneficence of Providence. 
That, if she would only return peacefully to her home, she 
would be happy there, Bisson had no doubt. Would he 
not be happy? and was she, being so uncultivated, to be 
supposed to possess such highly sensitive feelings as him- 
self ? It was a little romance which would lighten up her 
life, and give her something to brood over when she was 
transported to her natural element again. Ah yes, things 
could be easily arranged if Morna would only consent. 
It was a pity, Bisson thought, that she was so obtuse to 
sensible reasoning like his. Nevertheless such reasoning 
must be tried, and quickly, for if a whisper of her true re- 
lation to himself reached the other’s ears, all his future 
hopes might be blasted. What to do now ? The last dil- 
igence was gone, he could not return to Bernise until the 
following day, and as the cafes were closed he must spend 
the night on board the “ Hortense.” 

The ship lay loaded in the harbor, for he had arranged 
to sail again in two days. If Morna would consent to his 
wishes, he might take her with him as he had done before, 
but instead of bringing her back, see her safe on board a 
ship which would take her to her home. 

Having come to this satisfactory conclusion, Bisson 
threw away the end of his cigar, and shaking back his 
hair, looked around him. 

He had wandered to the outskirts of the town, and stood 
now on an eminence looking over the house-tops towards 
the sea. The church clocks were chiming “ three.” There 
was little time to be lost. He would board the “ Hortense,” 
make all ready for sailing the next day, and catch the early 
diligence to Bernise. Turning, he walked a short distance 
along the hill, and then began to descend in a circuitous 
path leading through a straggling.plantation which covered 
the hillside. He had not gone far, however, when he 
stumbled over some obstruction and almost fell. Mutter- 


B/SSON- DECIDES AA^ IMPORTANT QUESTION. 25 -^ 

ing a phrase of a not very polite kind, he stooped to see 
what lay in his path, when he discovered it to be, not as he 
had supposed the stump of a fallen tree, but the figure of 
a man. Stooping still lower to reconnoitre the man’s 
figure, he recognized Nicole Louandre — lying upon the 
ground snoring lustily, with his head buried deep in fallen 
leaves and his body coiled up like a boa-constrictor. 

Suddenly, for the first time, there flashed across Bis- 
son’s mind the memory of the discovery he had made some 
time before of Louandre’s decided liking for Morna, and 
for an instant Bisson deemed that the timely discovery 
might now be worked to his own advantage. But the 
thought was only momentary. Bad as he was, Bisson 
could not entertain the idea of handing the girl over to 
Louandre. After all she had done no harm, and in former 
times he had loved her. It was no fault of hers, nor in- 
deed of his, that she was unlit to dwell in civilized lands, 
unable to conform to civilized ways, or to perceive the 
genuine worth of so superior a being as himself. In re- 
turning her to her home he would be doing her no cruelty, 
only giving back to her the contentment which she had 
certainly not enjoyed since she came away. 

But Louandre’s presence there, when his services were 
needed on the ship, offended his sense of discipline. 
Taking him by the shoulder, he proceeded to shake him 
in such a manner as to bring him to consciousness. But 
on the preceding night Louandre had drunk deeply, and 
his sleep was heavy. For sometime he only groaned and 
muttered inarticulate curses, then scrambling to his feet 
he gazed about him in a dazed half-sleepy way. Presently 
the puzzled look wore off, and the usual sullen expression 
settled on his face. 

"’■Diable!^^ he muttered in French, as he recognized 
the captain, “ what is it that you wish from me t ” 

“I. want you on the ‘ Hortense,’ ” returned Bisson, 
sneering fastidiously at the disreputable appearance of the 
mate. “ We sail to-morrow, Louandre, and — you must be- 
come sober.” 

Louandre shook himself, and picking up his cap, 
slouched away by the captain’s side. For a time the two 
walked on in silence. Bisson abstractedly pulling at his 


254 


THE DARK COLLEEN. 


mustache, almost unconscious of the presence of the mate 
in the contemplation of his plans. Louandre, sullenly 
silent as usual, but glancing from time to time with sig- 
nificant looks at his companion. 

Presently Louandre spoke. 

“ Is this true, what they say about you ? he asked. 

“ What .? ” 

“ Why, that you mean to marry the girl at the Fleur- 
de-Lys ? ” 

“ Diahle, what is that to you ? ” asked Bisson, angrily 
biting his lip. 

Preserving his dogged, insolent look, Louandre replied, 
“It matters nothing to me, as you say, but forjvw, — 
look you, it is an ugly thing to have two wives ! ” 

Bisson paused, and gazed quietly and questioningly into 
the man’s face. 

“ What the devil do you mean, Louandre ? ” 

“Just what I say ! ” 

“ That / have two wives ? ” 

“ Not at all — you have not married yet the girl at the 
Fleur de-Lys ! ” 

“ And if I did .? ” 

“Then you .would get into a scrape — that is all.” 
Bisson’s face went white with rage. 

“ You are a fool and a drunkard, Louandre ; you think 
I married the Irish girl, but, saerC I am not so mad. I 
tell you I did not.” 

“ And you tell me a lie ! ” 

“You believe I married her ” 

“ Not at all. I k7iow it ! ” 

Still the man preserved his stolid, unruffled demeanor , 
but Bisson ground his white teeth in rage, and clenched 
his fist. Ere he could speak, however, the mate again 
proceeded in his habitually sullen manner. 

“ If you think I would expose you, you are wrong. I 
would do much to oblige you — it is better for you to tell 
me no lies ! ” 

“ I have told you none ! ” • 

“You are telling me lies now. You said to me ’not at 
all,’ when I asked you — and you lied ! ” 

This was certainly plain speaking; but Louandre knew 


B/SSON DECIDES AN /MPORTANT QUESTION. 255 

the exact character of his interlocutor. Suppressing his 
rage, Bisson asked calmly, 

“ Since you affirm that I am married, Louandre, may I 
ask the name of your informant } ” 

The mate glanced around with a grim frown. 

“ You would like to know that — but it is not to the point. 
I know you are married — 1 know you want to marry again, 
and, del et ejifer., I will help you if you will ! ” 

He paused, and Bisson paused also, his angry feeling- 
giving place to one of surprise, as, in one flash, he per- 
ceived the state of Louandre’s mind. At first he was about 
to answer impulsively, but suppressing his feelings he 
asked as calmlv as before, 

“Well!” 

“ It matters nothing to me that the girl is your wife,” the 
mate continued ; “ but, look you, to the girl at the Pleur- 
de-Lys it would matter a good deal. If you want to get 
her^ you must send the Irish girl away.” 

Bisson give a smile, which was half a sneer. 

“ Mon ami what I know very well alreadv. 

Well, is that all ” 

“ Malediction /” continued Louandre, with a savage cry 
of passion, frightful to hear ; “ no, it is not all. Listen to 
me. If you wish to stay in Hantour this voyage, why, I 
will sail the ‘ Hortense,’ and take-the girl along with me 
and she will trouble you no more.” 

Precisely the same plan which had crossed Bisson’s mind 
a few minutes before ; the arrangement from which he had 
recoiled, and from which he recoiled still. 

“ Diable.^ Louandre, you are a wretch ! ” he said quietly. 
“ Say that to me again, and I 'will pitch you head foremost 
into the sea ! ” 

“ You mean to keep the girl ? ” 

“ I mean to send you to the devil, my friend, if you do 
not hold your peace. ” 

Louandre said no more, and the two again continued 
their way down the hill-side, through the quiet town to- 
wards the shipping-wharf. Bisson blew his whistle, and the 
boat from the “ Hortense ” came to the wharf-steps, and 
took them on board. Iffie captain descended to his cabin, 
the mate remained on deck, smoking his pipe, 


THE DARK COLLEEN. 


-^56 


Although he had obeyed Bisson's mandate and kept 
silent for the time being, Louandre by no means intended 
to give in, but was ready to pursue his object with that 
quiet determination which was a characteristic of his na- 
ture. That Bisson had grown utterly tired of Morna he 
knew, and he despised the sentiment or selfishness which 
made him withhold her from another and (as he believed) 
a better man. Bisson had intended to get rid of her, — 
that he had acknowledged ; and was it not better that he 
who felt genuine love for her and intended to make her 
happy should take her away, than that she should be cast 
helpless on the world ? After all he was doing her a good 
deed, when he tried to take her away from Bisson. 

When his pipe was smoked out, and the ashes knocked 
into the sea, he descended to the cabin, and entering, took 
his seat before the captain. At first he began cautiously, 
protesting his great friendship for Bisson, and at the same 
time throwing out a few hints of what his hatred might 
do. Finally, he spoke of his love for Morna, and of his 
willingness to take her, once and for all, to himself. 

“ You want the girl at the Fleur-de-Lys } ” he concluded, 
I want the Irish girl — that is good. You refuse to let 
her come with me — good. You goto Bernise, you tell her 
that you want her to go away, and she goes straight to 
Hantoiir, and tells the girl at the cafe that she is your 
wife. That, look you, is how it will all end! ” 

'Fhus, and much more, Louandre said, and as he spoke 
Bisson grew less and less incensed. After all, there might 
be sense in what the man urged. He had grown tired of 
]\Iorna, that was a fact which he could not deny, and for 
which he could not blame himself ; they had been unsuited 
to each other from the first, and better results could not 
have been expected. Was it not likely that when she was 
once removed from Bernise slie would turn her thoughts to 
Louandre, just as he himself had turned his to Euphrasie ? 
It was not at once that Bisson, softening under Louandre’s 
persuasions, arrived at this happy state of mind. Scruple 
after scruple was raised and overcome ; he hesitated — ■ 
longed to comply, yet dared not ; and the hours slipped 
rapidly past, shops opened one bv one. people gradually 


TIIR SHIP SAILS. 


257 

gathered in the streets, until it was midday, and Louandre, 
fiery and impatient, won his wish. 

At last, Bisson rose. 

“ I can catch the mid-day diligence to Bernise,” he said, 
nervously. “ 1 will return with her in the evening, d'o- 
morrow you sail alone.” 

But Louandre objected. 

“ You go not to Bernise ; give me a little note — and • 
then — I will do the rest.” 

“ I must not see her again ? ” 

“ Not at all — it will only make her miserable. Bah ! for- 
get her and think of the girl at the Fleur-de-Lys.” 

Bisson sighed. Well, having decided on a great step, 
it was foolish to hesitate about small preliminaries. He 
had consented to the girl’s going away, and since he had 
done so, it would be wise to cause her as little pain as pos- 
sible. Yet as he wrote the few lines which were to be the 
decoy, his hand trembled and he was very pale. At last 
the deed was done ; and, installing Louandre as temporary 
captain of the ship, Bisson went ashore, hastening to for- 
get the whispers of conscience in the presence of the new 
syren which was luring him so sweetlv, perhaps to his de- 
struction. 


CHAPTER XL I I. 

THE SHIP SAILS. 

N ‘ I COLE LOUANDRE was by no means easy in his 
mind. He was doing a cowardly action, and he knew 
it ; for although the sentiment which he felt for Morna was 
insufficient to spiritualize his nature and make his actions 
commendable, it affected him so far as to make his feelings 
troublesome during the work which he had undertaken to 
do. Louandre, as we have said, was not a man of sensitive 
feelings. Of the noble, self-sacrificing love which some 
mortals feel, he knew nothing — he merely felt his animal 
passions strong within him, and he paii.sed at nothing which 
might lead to their gratification. Here the temptation was 

17 


THE DARK COLLEEH. 


258 

strong, the reward great. Had it been possible for him to 
gain possession of Morna by other and more noble means, 
he might, perhaps, have been on the whole better pleased 
to adopt them, especially as he wanted to appear well in 
the girl’s own eyes ; but to sacrifice her altogether, was 
another matter — this he would not, could not do. Nay, he 
would marry her in all honesty, and what more could the 
girl want ; no doubt, in time, she would overcome all her 
prejudices and settle her affections upon him. 

Having got matters comfortably arranged with Bisson, 
and having settled that the ship should be ready for sailing 
that night, he entered the captain’s boat and got put ashore. 
It was afternoon, but the sun was still bright ; so instead 
of going straight to Bernise, he strolled down the street, 
and dropping into a cabaret, called for cognac. It was a 
dingy-looking cabaret, situated close to the shipping-wharf 
and frequented mostly by sailors. Retiring to a shady 
corner, Louandre sipped his cognac, listened to the roar 
in the streets outside, and pondered over his future plans. 

It would be unwise, he reflected, to fetch Morna now 
in the bright daylight, when she might encounter Bisson at 
any street corner ; he would wait till evening had set in, 
and then there would be little fear of his plans miscarry- 
ing. So he called for more cognac, took up “ Petit 
'Journal, '' principally as a means of hiding his face, and 
began pondering again. 

When the brightest light of day had faded, and the 
hour was again approaching when^ the diligence would 
leave Bernise for Hantour, Louandre left the cabaret and 
walked in the direction of Bernise. His vision was none 
of the clearest now, nor were his steps very steady, for the 
liquors which he had taken during the ^afternoon were 
beginning to take effect. All his scruples, if he ever liad 
any, were vanished into thin air ; all he thought of now 
was the time when he would have Morna for his'own ; and 
this thought caused his spirits to rise considerably, as, has- 
tening along the darkening lanes, he came at length to the 
little town of Bernise, and stood before the red brick 
dwelling where Morna dwelt. Though the stream of 
civilized life flowed unceasingly without, all within the 
house seemed very quiet. 


THE SHIP SAILS. 


^S9 

As Louandre, entering unceremoniously, crossed the 
hall to the sitting-room where he expected to find Morna, 
the sound of his heavy tread on the polished oaken floor 
echoed loudly; and Morna came into the hall with eager, 
wistful face, \\lien she saw Louandre she shrank away ; 
the joyful light died out of her eyes, a wearied, pained ex- 
pression overspread her face, and sobs rose to her throat. 
All the dark hours of the night she had sat up, waiting for 
her husband, and waiting in vain ; all day she had sat there 
hoping against hope, trusting, faithful, as she had ever 
been, — listening for his footsteps, his voice ; and now, as 
the reward of all her watching, came Louandre, the man 
whom she began to regard with mortal dread. Where was 
her husband 'i Many questions rose to Morna’s lips, but 
she could not utter one ; all she could do was to stand and 
look in a strange, piteous, pleading way into the man’s 
face. And Louandre. returning the look, felt the sort of 
pity one might feel for a poor, snared, helpless bird : and 
for a moment his resolution wavered, and he half deter- 
mined to tell her the truth, sacrifice all his basely nurtured 
hopes, and act for once in his life like a Christian man. 
But in the breast of a manlike Louandre, such feelings are 
evanescent ; quickly the revulsion came, and as he stared 
into her eyes tlie pathetic beauty of her face awoke his 
passions once more. All his scruples were swept away 
again instantaneously ; and when in low, trembling tones, 
Morna asked, “Where is my husband?” Louandre, with 
no hesitation in his voice, replied. 

“ Dat is what I come to tell you. Le capitaine he is 
on the ‘Hortense,’ and he there wait for you. You will 
come to him with me.’’ 

Morna did not reply. Could it be that Bisson had sent 
this man, this one of all others, to take her away ? W hy 
had he not himself come home to her that she might have 
told him all. Could it be that his anger lasted, that the 
breach between them was never to be healed ? W'ere all 
her prayers to remain unanswered, all her efforts to fail ? 
And yet, if he was angry still, why had he sent for her at 
^.^11 — (vhy had he not sailed away without her, as he had 
done before ? Could it be that he had not sent for her at 
all ? that the man was endeavoring to lure her from her 


260 


TlIR DARK COLLEEM. 


home, just as those vile men did of whom Barron OXlloas- 
key had often told her ? That might be so ; the strange 
restlessness of the man’s manner only served to make this 
suspicipn stronger. 

“ I cannot go with you ” she -said, turning away. 

Louandre eyed her keenly. 

“ You go not with me ? ” he said, not when de cap- 
itaine send for 3^011 ” 

“ No, I cannot ! ” 

“Not when he send 3^011 this ? ” 

Putting his finger and thumb into his waistcoat pocket, 
he drew forth a piece of paper, spread it out, and held it 
towards her. And Morna, taking it from his hands, read 
in the captain’s writing these words : 

•“ Come to Han tour with Louandre ; we sail to-night.” 

As Morna read, her scruples were overcome. It was 
true then that he had sent for her, and she must go. Again 
she looked curiously into the man’s face, but that look 
neither increased nor diminished her misgivings. What 
could she do but place her faith in man, as she had done 
hitherto, and pray to God for succor She was cast out 
into a world of which she knew nothing ; she lay helpless 
at the mercy of men who held her destiny in their hands. 
So when Louandre, chafing at the dela3', eager to finish 
his work and to hold her fast and secure, asked her again 
if she would come with him to the “ Hortense,” she only 
l)owed her head, making no further resistance, but ready 
in this as in all things to obey her husband’s will. 

Despite the assurance which the mate had given her 
that all was straight and clear, despite the evidence of 
Bisson’s letter, and despite her own innocent faith in man, 
and her great love for her husband, Morna coukLnot shake 
off the dark forebodings which beset her soul. Her mind 
would not rest. In vain did she assure herself that the 
great depression which she felt was but the result of the 
fatigue and terrible mental 'strain which she had endured ; 
in vain did she argue to herself that the happiness which 
she had so often pictured, but never fully realized, might 
come to her at last ; that between her and the man whom 
she had loved and trusted perfect reconciliation would 
exist and perfect peace. That heavy feeling of dread 


THE SHIP SAILS. 


26r 


which oppressed her would not be shaken away. Follow- 
ing Louandre, she passed from her home along the lamp- 
lit streets and entered the diligence which was going to 
Hantour. Sitting in a quiet corner of the vehicle, gazing 
wearily at the bright faces which passed before her hurrying 
to and fro beneath the glare of the street lamps, and lis- 
tening to the voices and to the deafening clatter of the 
sabots and the rattle of the diligence wheels, she felt like 
one dazed, passing away from scenes where she had found 
no rest, on to others where peace would never come. 

Presently the conductor blew a final blast upon his 
horn, and the diligence rolled on out of the busy streets of 
Bernise and entered the quiet country lanes. It was a fair 
still night, and the silvery starlight was cast like a veil 
about the earth. The tall trees loomed ghostly, rustling 
their branches in the soft sighing breeze, and tlie stretches 
of meadow land on either side were bathed in nu^stic light. 
For a time Morna sat looking about her, dreamily drinking 
in the quiet beauty of the scene, then, overcome with 
fatigue, she rested her head on the side of the diligence 
and fell asleep. 

When she awakened, the vehicle had stopped beneath 
the glare of the street lamps of Hantour. A crowd gathered 
around chattering and laughing, but above the general 
murmur she heard Louandre’s voice calling to her, and 
quite mechanically she rose to her feet to follow him down 
the dark streets to the wharf steps. The “ Hortense ” lay 
in the harbor with her sails flapping in the wind, and a 
boat awaited them at the wharf. Resisting Louandre’s 
urgent pressure to embark, deaf for a moment to his words, 
Morna stood looking for her husband. But the faces 
which crowded about her, ever changing like the rippling 
waves of the sea, were unknown, the voices murmuring in 
her ears unfamiliar. He was not there. 

“ Noi sacr^., he is on the ‘ Hortense,’ ” murmured the 
voice of the mate, trembling now lest his prize should es- 
cape him when so nearly won. “ I say to you that he 
awaits you there ! Come, come ! ” 

And Morna, having no reasonable cause for disbelief 
followed the man. Not even when, seated iii the boat, 
she felt the sea surging l.)eneath her and saw the shore 


262 


THE DARK COLLEEN. 


slowly receding from her sight, did she feel that her trust 
had been tampered with, her faith misplaced. Had she 
been less absorbed in her own emotions she might have 
noted the strange bearing of her escort. As he looked at 
her, Louandre’s features were strangely contorted. She 
was so silent, so submissive, and above all so beautiful I 
When the boat in which she sat pushed out from shore and 
he saw on every side only the palpitating sea, he trembled 
from head to foot with passionate agitation. But Morna’s 
eyes were turned away, her thoughts were wandering, all she 
looked at was the sea ; all she contemplated was the meet- 
ing which she believed was so near. 

Presently the boat pulled up beside the “ Hortense,” 
and Morna, eagerly assisted by the mate, stepped on board. 
It was all confusion on deck, for the ship had been made 
ready for sailing ; some of the sails were hoisted and flap- 
ping loosely in the breeze, uncoiled ropes lay scattered about 
the decks, and the sailors hurried confusedly to and fro. 
A slight breeze was blowing, whistling dolefully amidst the 
rigging, and the sky was covered with black clouds. Paus- 
ing on the deck, Morna looked around again in vain. She 
saw faces she knew only too well, but not the one she 
sought. Again she turned inquiringly to Louandre, and 
again, after a whispered conference with the men he came 
to her side. 

“ Le capitaine is not here, but he come even now. If 
you go to the cabin it will be better.” 

Louandre’s voice was almost soft now, yet still he 
urged her away. And Morna did not understand. Ivook- 
ing unsuspiciously into the man’s face, she suffered him to 
lead her away to the captain’s cabin. There she sat, lis- 
tening vaguely to the noise of the feet which were hurrying 
confusedly above her head. How long she sat thus she 
did not know, but suddenly she was awakened from her 
trance. There was a great jerk, which made the vessel 
tremble, then a heavy rumbling noise, and the clank of a 
chain. With all these sounds Morna was perfectly famil- 
iar. Rising hastil}^ from her seat, she hurried to the steps 
leading to the deck, and there found Louandre. 

“ You come not on deck now,” he said, still barring her 
way, “ it is confusion here ; de capitaine will come to you,” 


£/SSOA^ OA' THE RACK. 


263 


Once again she returned to her seat. The heavy 
clanking of the chain ceased there was a rattling, a 
tramping of feet : the ship keeled partly over, and the 
water washed and splashed against her side. Then Morna 
knew that the “ Hortense ” had raised her anchor and was 

running out to sea 

And Captain Bisson, where was he ? 


CHAPTER XLIII. 


BISSON ON THE RACK. 



OMFORTABLY sheltered in a private room of the 


^ Hotel d’Auvergne, Hantour, the good captain sat 
straining his eyes seaward. He could not well distinguish 
the vessels in the bay, only the dim glimmer of the water 
and the flash of the lanterns which swung from the mast- 
heads, and upon one of these, among the brightest and 
largest in the whole number, he fixed his gaze uneasily. 

It was the lantern of the “ Hortense.” 

Despite his outward calmness, he had been unable to 
return quietly to Bernise until Louandre had executed his 
plans. Not that he was at all distrustful of the mate ; he 
only felt that his own conscience would be a good deal 
more at ease if with his own e3^es he saw the “ Hortense” 
sail away, and he knew that the girl was comfortabl}' carried 
off. After the road had been made clear, he would feel so 
fitter to make love to Euphrasie, and to meet the keen much 
calculating gaze of Madame Monier. So immediately upon 
landing, he had quieth’ withdrawn to the Plotel d’Auvergne 
to await the issue. 

But Louandre, as we have shown, delayed his journey 
to Bernise, and when the day darkened again into night, 
shutting all the vessels from his sight, Bisson grew anxious 
and ill . at ease, darkly anticipating the evil exposure which 
might happen through the failure of this plans. Still he 
could be patient when it suited him, and especially wdien, 


THE DARK COLLEEN. 


2:'-4 

as now, he had a great stake at issue. Instead of desert- 
ing his post, he sat smoking his cigar, pulling his mustache 
and watching the lantern which he knew to belong to the 
“ Hortense.” How long he sat he could not tell ; the time 
hung heavy, and his anxiety was great. 

At length his patience was rewarded. Just as he was 
about to apostrophize Louandre as a fool, and what was 
worse to him just then, a traitor who was playing his mas- 
ter false, he saw the lantern disappear and the side lights 
glimmer. Immediately afterwards the ship began to move 
out of the bay. Then Bisson rose from his seat, lit up a 
fresh cigar, and made his way into the street. Before 
going to Bernise, however, Bisson thought it as well to 
make everything certain, so passing through the streets he 
made his way down to the shipping wdiarf, and inquired of 
one of the custom-house clerks the name of the ship which 
had just sailed. 

“The ‘ Blortense,’ bound for Ireland.” 

Bisson smiled as the answer \vas given, but the dark- 
ness veiled his face from the man. Turning on his heel, 
he made his way again up into the brighter part of the 
towm. He had only gone a few yards when a ragged little 
boy blocked his path soliciting alms. Looking into the 
little pinched face with that superb smile of his, he gave 
the child a franc. He had kicked such gamins before scores 
of times, and had refused a starving child a sou ; but to-night 
he could afford to be generous ; such good fortune did 
not happen to a man twice, and his heart melted to all 
mankind ! Passing on to the diligence office, he took a 
seat in the vehicle, and was soon rattling on towards his 
home. 

As luck w^ould have -it, he sat beside an old naval 
captain who w^as fond of hearing his owm voice, and who 
kept his attention engaged the whole way. This was for- 
tunate, since Bisson did not wish his thoughts to wander ; 
not that his conscience was particiilarly sensitive or likelv 
to trouble him much, but on the whole it was better that 
unpleasant associations should be thrust aw'ay into the 
background. 

When the diligence stopped, Bisson dismounted and 
made his wav tow'ards his home. All the w'indows were 


B/SSON ON THE RACK. 265 

dark and when, applying the key which he invariable car- 
ried, he entered the hall and opened the sitting-room door, 
he saw that the chamber was empty. Quickly striking a 
light he took a survey of the scene. The first thing that 
attracted his eyes was a book lying on the table. It was 
the Irish Bible which Morna had been wont to read to her 
father in the old days on Eagle Island ; a book thumb- 
marked and well worn, the leaves of which were yellow 
with age ; a book which Morna had prized foolishly, he 
thought, and almost the only thing which she had brought 
from her home when she had left with him. She had 
taken it as a souyenir to remind her always of her father, 
and she had said, 

Ma3^be if from this same book I pray to the holy 
virgin, she will keep me from sin and sorrow when I shall 
be away.” 

And now it came to Bisson as a reproof from her, re- 
calling all the past ; all his former professions and protes- 
tations,, and all his subsequent deeds. 

For some moments he stood looking strangely at the 
book, and a feeling which he had not experienced before 
began to creep into his breast ; the next moment he lifted 
the volume and cast it aside. 

“ I am growing a fool ! ” he muttered contemptuously ; 
“ the poor girl will be well enough, and I — ah yes ! — I shall 
be better suited with Euphrasie.” 

So nervously casting aside anything which would be 
likely to remind him of Morna, Bisson, tolerably well-satis- 
fied and conscience free, threw himself into his velvet- 
covered chair and began to doze. He would not go to 
Euphrasie that night ; it would be as well perhaps to sleep 
away the memory of his last love before continuing his 
protestations to the new. 

The next morning, however, he made his toilet with 
care, went by an early diligence to Hantour, and wended 
his way to the cafe of the Fleur-de-Lys. Although it was 
still early he found Euphrasie dressed for her morning 
walk, but on her face there was a graver expression than 
he had been accustomed to see there. No sooner did he 
ap])ear, however, than it faded away, her eyes shone smil- 
ingly into his face as she held up her cheek for his kiss. 


266 


THE DARK COLLEEN. 


“You come early, Emile,” she said, spreading out her 
white hands, “ but I am glad, for look you, it is dull walk- 
ing alone ; I have had plenty of that hitherto, but — now — 
it will be nice to have company.” 

“ Do you walk out every day, my Euphrasie ? ” 

“ Assuredly ; the cafe is dull in the day time, and poor 
maman there, who will not stir into the open air, can man- 
age the business well ; but at night, look you, I am chained 
to my post, for in this world one has to look after the 
sous.” 

Bisson smiled, and sympathetically pressed one of her 
white hands. 

“ Your troubles will all be over, Euphrasie, when you 
are my wife.’’ 

Turning aside her head the girl made a curious grim- 
ace, the next moment she was smiling in hfs face again. 

“ Pent etre^" she said, coolly, “ but that time has not yet 
arrived, and can be discussed again. As 1 said, I shall 
not be needed at the cafe until after sunset, and I wish 
you to take me out for a pleasant day. Will you do so ? ” 

'I'he question sounded strangely in the captain’s ears, 
for who, he thought, could refuse any request which came 
from such pretty lips. As his cold fastidious eyes sur- 
veyed the graceful figure of the girl, noted the harmony of 
the colors which adorned her, the soft whiteness of her 
cheek, the tender brilliance of her eyes, Bisson congratu- 
lated himself again and again on the possession of so fair 
a flower. Again pressing her white hand in his, he kissed 
her cheek in token of assent. A few moments later they 
had left the cafe and were passing through the crowded 
streets towards the cool country lanes. 

It was a pleasant morning, but the heat of the sun in- 
creased as the day wore on. In the streets of the town it 
was disagreeably hot, but out in the country ways the 
breeze was balmy, and there was plenty of shade. It was 
just the kind of w'eather which suited Euphrasie. She en- 
joyed the warmth and brightness of the summer skies and 
the trim neatness of the green landscape which stretched 
around her, and being at no time at a loss for w'ords, she 
this morning kept up an unceasing flow^ of conversation. 
True, her gayety seemed rather forced at times, and now 


^ BISSON ON THE RACN. 267 

and then she darted very keen glances into her compan- 
ion’s face. Without noting this, Bisson strode on beside 
her in dreamy silence. 

Presently she touched his arm. 

“ Emile, I have a favor to ask ; — say will you grant 
it ? ” 

“ Assuredly, Euphrasie, I would grant you my life, if 
that were necessary ! ” exclaimed Bisson, gallantly ; “ what 
do you wish, mo7i aiige ? ” 

“ Only this, that you will take me to your rooms where 
you have dwelt all these long months alone 

The request, though not altogether unreasonable, was 
somewhat strange, and Bisson had a right to appear sur- 
prised. He soon regained his self-possession, however, 
and nodded assent, whereat Euphrasie’s bright eyes opened 
wonderingly, and her fair face broke into smiles. 

“ That is charming,” she said, “ and as my presence in 
the cafe is not needed we have no cause to hasten, you 
see.” 

“You wish to go 11070,’’’ asked Bisson, amazed. 

“ Assuredly, now’’ returned Euphrasie. 

“ Ma foi^ that- cannot be. To-morrow, Euphrasie ! ” 

“ Bah ! to-morrow will not do. As you know it is a 
fete day, the cafe will be crowded and I could not spare 
the time ; to-day business is dull, and it must be no7v or 
not at all ! ” 

Tossing her golden head, Euphrasie pouted her pretty 
lips in childish half feigned anger. She was certainly very 
wilful, this little beauty, though fully as well initiated into 
worldly secrets as was her future parti. She knew how to 
modulate her voice and droop her eyelids in the most 
effective manner, and worm her way into the hearts of men ; 
and with an admirer of female sharpness like Bisson, 
charms such as these had weight. So when Euphrasie, 
raising her bright eyes to his, pressed her request again, he 
fairly melted beneath her smile. Besides why should she 
not go if she wished ? Certainly he had a strong aversion 
to faking her there, but he knew quite well that it was un- 
reasonable. What harm could possibly ensue since the 
“ Hortense ” had sailed and Morna was far away .? This 
capricious fancy of his fiance'e might as well be satisfied, 


2^3 


THE DARK COLLEEH. 


since under the circumstances it would do no harm to any 
one. 

So turning their steps again towards the town, they 
passed through the crowded streets, and when the diligence 
started for Bernise, they had taken their seats therein, — 
Bisson forcing an unnatural calm into his countenance, 
and Euphrasie glancing from time to time suspiciously at 
him. Alighting: from the vehicle at the diligence office, 
they walked together up the street and entered the small 
red brick building which Bisson called his home. 

Sitting in his favorite chair he watched the supple 
figure of Euphrasie, as she moved about the room where 
Morna had dwelt so long, inspecting this and that and 
making thereon running comments in her clear but highly 
pitched voice. 

Ma foi, it is a pretty room,” she said, “but for me, 
look you ! I could not bear the quiet — We must dwell in 
Hantour, Emile, when we are wed — a/i del ! what is this ? ” 
she asked, as her sharp e3^es fell upon a rosary of jet black 
beads, the very one which had adorned Morna’sneck when 
she dwelt on Eagle Island. By what strange accident it 
had come to be left there Bisson could not tell, unless 
Morna in her excitement had forgotten it as she had for- 
gotten the bible, when, in obedience to his orders, she had 
gone away with the mate. Turning towards him, Euphra- 
sie held up the beads swung on her white fingers and 
asked, smiling mischievously. 

“ Vo?/ wear such ornaments as these, M’sieur.? they seem 
as though they should adorn a female H 

Bisson turned pale, and looked at her for a moment in 
silence. Recovering himself, he laughed nervously ; and 
taking the beads from her hands, hung them around her 
neck. 

“dffiey seem to be just what they are, Euphrasie ; they 
are quaint things worn by the Irish people. I became pos- 
sessed of them when I was in Ireland.” 

“ You bought them for me!''' 

Bisson paused, and looked at her ; then laughing ner- 
vously again, he replied, 

“ Not at all ; I bought them because they are curious ; 
but since you admire them, mo7i a?i^e, they are yours I ” 


BISSON ON THE RACK. 


269 

Euphrasie laughed, and taking the beads from her neck, 
held them in her hand, and regarded them meditatively. 
They were quaint, certainly, but not very handsome, and 
Euphrasie did not care to have them about her throat ; so 
laying them on the table, she again commenced her in- 
spection of the room. And, indeed, Bisson was glad that 
she had done so, for although — to escape from the unplea- 
sant position into which the discovery had thrust him — he 
had avowed that the beads were hers, he had felt a strange 
repulsion to seeing them upon her neck. The discovery 
had unnerved him, and he was sorry that he had yielded to 
the girl’s solicitations to bring her there. 

“ Euphrasie, it is time to go !” he said, rising to his 
feet. 

But the girl shook her head. 

“ Oh, not at all j it is pleasant here, and I like to linger ; 
besides, I mean to discover all your tastes before we mar- 
ry. So this is what you study?” she continued, sinking 
into a chair, and opening a volume which she found thrown 
carelessly aside. 

The first_ glance at the text, made her bright eyes open 
\vonderingly. Aproaching Bisson’s side, she held before 
.his eyes the Irisb bible. 

Bisson started and turned paler still. 

“You read that, Emile ?” asked Euphrasie, glancing 
from the strangely-formed characters to his face. 

Bisson shook his head. 

“No.? — well, that is droll,” she continued, laughing 
lightly. “ Of what use to have books one cannot read ? I 
thought you had studied it all those long evenings during 
the winter-time when you kept awaiy from the cafe, and that 
when we were wed, you would teach me ! ” 

“ The book is not mine, Euphrasie — put it aside ! ” 

Bisson spoke nervously, almost authoritatively, and 
Euphrasie, glancing up from the strange old pages, smiled 
and shook her pretty head. 

“ Ah, but you will be a tyrant when you are wed, 
M’sieur ; but, ma foi, I am wilful and accustomed to my 
own way.” 

Quietly she turned over the yellow pages one by one, 
while in feverish unrest Bisson watched her, more than 


270 


Th'E DARK COLLEEN. 


ever angry with himself for having brought her to his 
rooms. At the fly-leaf she paused, and began slowly to 
spell out some words which were written there. 

“ M-o-r-n-a — Morna ; what is that, Emile ? ^ English, 
n'est-ce pas ? ” 

Bisson nodded. 

“ It is a name.’’ 

“ Old da ! ” and looking at it again she began, 
“ Moorna — no — that is not it ; — bah ! I cannot read the 
English j it is a barbarous tongue. Ah, I have it ! ” she 
exclaimed suddenly, closing the book, “ it is the name of 
your English cousin, the one I saw with you at the mid- 
night mass ? ” 

“ Yes, yes, it is hers ; put it aside, Euphrasie.” 

‘‘ Well, since you will have it so — there ! ” 

Throwing the book aside, she came up to him with 
outspread hands and smiling face. 

lam well pleased,’’ she exclaimed, moving her 
white hands, “ for I heard, look you, that you had a mis- 
tress, that you kept her here under lock and key like a 
bird, showing her to no one, and letting her in turn see no 
one.” 

“ You heard that, Euphrasie, and from whom ” 

“ A/i, well, it matters not, since it is not fn^e, since ' 
you are' no monster, M’sieur, and can defy the sneering 
fools of Hantour, and since you will swear to me, will you 
not, that you love no one but me ? ” 

Bisson smiled, relieved. At last his torture was over ; 
passing his arms about her waist, and drawing her to his 
side, he was about to reply, when suddenly his eyes, as if 
drawn by some magic influence, were raised and drawn 
towards the door. 

There they remained fixed. 

All power of speech deserted him ; his cheek went 
white as death ; he put up his hands as if to ward off 
some terrible blow, and cried out in fear. 


A LAST APPEAL. 


271 


CHAPTER XLIV. 

A LAST APPEAL. 

F or some minutes after the ship had sailed, Morna 
sat listening dreamil}' to the sound of the washing 
waves. As yet she felt no uneasiness, for unsuspicious as 
she was, she concluded that the captain had come on deck 
and had given orders for starting. Trembling with antici- 
pation at the meeting with her husband, she rose to her 
feet, and standing before the cabin mirror began to adjust 
her quaint little Normandy cap. For did not Emile de- 
light in her beauty 1 did she not remember how his blue 
eyes used to brighten when she assumed any new piece of 
simple finery Anxious in all things to keep his love, and 
win to herself the golden peace which she had pictured, 
Morna prepared to arrange her dark braids as she knew 
he loved to see them. 

While she was thus engaged, however, she felt her arm 
touched, and turning, beheld standing close beside her the 
little plump figure of the cook. Andre’s face was grave, 
tears stood in his eyes, and he was wildly wringing his 
hands. 

“ Ah, Jesu-Marie, saints and angels keep you ; but it 
is no blame of mine ! ” 

“What is the matter?” asked Morna, gently; but the 
cook waved his hands despairingly in the air. 

“ del ! if I know when we sail I come not — not at all 
— but for me I know not, and now it is all too late. I 
would hafe warn you — I would hafe save you ; — but, <'?//, 
Dieu ( I guess not all de plan, I swear it — by de Saints ! ” 
Crouching down on the floor with his hands around 
his knees, he began to moan piteously. The thought that 
crossed Morna’s mind was that the sailors had already 
commenced their old work of cruelty and torture ; so 
glancing at the tearful face, she said, 

“ Do not be afraid, they shall not be suffered to harm 
you again. I will speak to the captain at once.” 


272 


TBE DARK COLLEEN. 


Again Andre wrung his hands, and gazed at her with 
his tearful eyes. 

“ For me, it matters not,” he heroically exclaimed, “ I 
will put myself into de sea to-morrow if you tell me, for 
you are good, but I would not put you dere. AL, Dieu^ de 
capitaine was not so bad as dat, for they laugh — ah, male- 
dictions, at getting you safe to sea.” 

Being quite unable to understand the drift of his 
speech, Morna looked puzzled ; and Andrd, eagerly clutch- 
ing at her sleeve, said hurriedl}', 

“ They kill me if the)^ know I tell you, but I care not, 
it is too bad ; de capitaine he know not about it never 
any more. He is ashore.” 

“ The captain is on deck ! ” Morna asserted, almost 
angrily, as her heart began to palpitate, her hands grow 
cold, with a nameless dread. And seeing her face grow 
pale, the cook began to cry for sympathy, 

“If de capitaine dere, dat matter not, but he is not — 
no, not at all — I swear he is ashore.” 

Without waiting to hear more, without waiting to say 
another word to the trembling little figure before her, 
Morna, with a strange sickening fear upon her, hastened 
across the cabin-floor and ran up to the deck. Here there' 
was a state of confusion ; loose ropes lying about, the 
sailors hurrying to and fro, while the “ Hortense,” heeling 
slightly on one side, slipped slowly through the calm black 
water of the ba}-. It was not easy to keep one’s footing 
on deck, but Morna held on to the bulwarks, and passed 
quickly along until she came to Louandre, who stood near 
to the wheel. Here she paused and asked nervously, 

“ Where is my husband ? is he not on board } ” 
Louandre smiled grimly, and stared stolidly into her 
face. The drink which he had taken at the cabaret that 
day, though it had not bereft him of reason, had been effi- 
cient in dulling the subtler feelings of his nature. Her 
pale, gentle face awakened no pity in his breast, and his 
only feeling was a dogged determination, to carry out his 
plans. 

“ De capitaine, is it ? ” he said, preserving his stolid 
unruffled demeanor, “he is there 
And he pointed to the land. 


• A LAST APPEAL 


273 

As he spoke she felt her heart leap wildly ; her hands 
clenched and unclenched in nervous dread. 

“ Why, then, did you tell me he was here ? ” she asked, 
in a low quivering voice. Why have you brought me 
here if my husband is not come ? What do you want with 
me ? what are you going to do ? ” 

She spoke hurriedly, in strange suppressed excitement, 
her white face turned to him, her eyes fixed wildly upon 
his, and Louandre felt his pulses throb as he gazed at her. 
He glanced at the land, slowly receding and mingling with 
the darkening clouds of night, then at the sea which rose 
in black oily waves around, and taking a step nearer to 
the girl, he said quickly, 

“ I bring you here because he care nothing for you, 
and because you come not willingly when I ask. He gets 
another ; I get you ! ” 

With a suppressed cry Morna shrank away, for sud- 
denly, in one iiash, she perceived something of the truth, 
saw the cowardly means which the man had employed to 
get her into his power. Confiding and unsuspicious as 
she always was, she had allowed him to lead her to her 
destruction. Not for a moment did any suspicion of her 
husband’s acquiescence in the matter enter her mind ; for 
although Morna was forced to acknowledge that much of 
the romance which had surrounded Bisson in her eyes had 
worn away, she had yet some faith in the man who had 
won her heart, as he had done, and who had once ap- 
peared to her little short of heroic. 

Shrinking in horror from the mate, Morna looked 
around, and as she did so, the faint ray of hope which un- 
til now had burned in her breast died away. In those 
coarse faces which pressed around her she saw no pity, 
only brutal amusement and mockery. These men had 
never cared for her, they had despised her from the first, 
and how as she stood there at their mercy their coarse 
gratification became apparent. 

As she stood glancing hurriedly from face to face, 
Louandre, by no means insensible to the beauty of her 
face and the grace of her form, watched her keenly, soft- 
ened for the moment by his own strong passion for her. 
To secure her love he felt that he would forfeit much ; but 

18 


THE DARK COLLEEN. 


274 

v/ith or without that love, he had got her, and she should 
never pass from him again. His harsh voice had a cer- 
tain gentleness in it when he spoke again. 

“You must fear nothing — not at all,” he said. “ You 
be wid good friends. I give you all you wish, and keep 
you safe.” 

But Morna cried, growing every moment more excited, 

“ You are wicked and bad like all the rest, and I am 
afraid. What have I ever done that you should be so 
cruel to me 1 Let me go ! let me go ! ” 

Louandre gave a diabolical grin. 

“ Let you go } not at all, mon amie^ you come wid me 
now, for you have no other place.” 

He came still nearer, but Morna shrank wildly away, 
suppressing a cry of fear. The next moment she clung in 
wild supplication to his arm, 

“ There is no one to help me but you, no one to save 
me ! If you like me as you say, be kind to me. I have 
known many hard and cruel men, but the worst of them 
would never harm a woman — let me go ! ” 

She clung to the side rigging of the ship as if to stay 
her course, but the “ Hortense ” still slipped slowly 
through the water. Her words faded away upon the wind, 
and then the answer came. 

“ Mal^dictio7i ! you belong to me, I say, .and I keep 
you ! it is better for you to keep quiet \ if you scream it 
make no difference, — only de sea-birds can hear.” 

“ You shall not touch me ! ” she cried, shrinking 
further and further from him. 

“ That is all very well for you to say,” returned 
Louandre, with cruel truth in his words, “but how do you 
escape me ? tell me dat. Sacre ! be wise, keep quiet and 
listen to me, for it is now too late to cry out.” 

As he spoke he looked around, and Morna instinct- 
ively looked too. 

^ The wind blew, softly whistling through the rigging of 
the ship. Dark clouds drifted across the sky, obscuring 
the light of the moon. A soft rain was falling, and about 
a quarter of a mile away lay the coast, a dark irregular 
mass buried in the night shadows and chilly mists of rain, 
and amidst it, the white light-house of Louaine just ib 


A LAST APPEAL. 


275 

lumined for the night. The “Hortense” was slipping 
along in deep water, hugging the shore, but would soon be 
in the open sea. ‘ Half laughing, half ci7ing, in a strange 
overmastering fear, Morna ran to the wheel and seized the 
steersman’s hands. 

“ Stay now ! ” she cried, “ do not let her go to sea, save 
me from that — Ploly Virgin, let me get ashore ! ” 

bor an instant the vessel’s head was bi'ought up to the 
wind, and the sails flapped loosely with a heavy roar, but 
Morna suddenly felt a pair of strong arms thrown about 
her, and the mate’s voice sounded in her ears. 

“ This will not do, you stay on deck no longer ; come 
down,” he said. 

Struggling fiercely for her freedom, Morna seized the 
01^ the leeward quarter and cried for help. Almost 
immediately she felt the mate’s hold relax. A figure, 
wildly gesticulating, interposed. It was the little cook, 
armed with a knife, and facing the angry mate. 

‘•You touch her not, vilaiii^ hear what I say; before 
you harm her, you take my life.” 

For a second Louandre stared at him, furiously gnash- 
ing his teeth. Then his clenched fist was raised, but the 
knife was raised too. 

“ God in Heaven I stab you, if you touch me ; and if 
you touch her, I stab you too ! ” 

Trembling more than ever, Morna stared from one to 
another in horror. A moment more and the two men 
were struggling fiercely ; the knife was wrenched from the 
cook’s hands ; blow after blow from the mate’s clenched fist 
descended upon his head, until half-senseless and blood- 
stained he freed himself from Louandre’s embrace, and 
rolled along the deck. Again Louandre, hissing out some 
words between his clenched teeth, raised his fist in the air 
to strike. 

At that moment Morna, now grown (juite hysterical, 
screamed aloud. 

The men looked startled ; Louandre paused ; then 
kicking the cook aside, approached her with outstretched 
hands. 

With sudden energy she thrust him back. Looking 
into his face with the wild despair of an animal in the 


THE DARK COLLEEN. 


276 

hands of its butcher, she clung to the side rigging of the 
ship. 

Louandre stood aghast and irresolute. 

Suddenly, before he could interpose a hand, she swung 
herself over the vessel’s side and plunged into the darken- 
ing sea. 

“ Bring her up to the wind, lower the boats ! quick, 
quick ! ” commanded Louandre, when the first sudden 
shock had passed away, and he realized that in her des- 
peration the girl had indeed cast herself overboard. The 
“ Hortense ” was brought up as speedily as possible, but 
not until she had run several hundred yards from the spot ; 
there was a fresh breeze blowing, she had good way on 
her, and it was not easy at a moment’s notice to check the 
speed of a vessel her size. However, when her nose veered 
round to the wind, and the great sails flapped, the long 
boat was lowered and four strong sailors flew to the oars, 
while Louandre sat in the stern and directed the boat’s 
course towards the spot where the girl had fallen ; peering 
keenly through the darkness, diligently watching the sur- 
face of the water, and urging the men to hasten and watch 
too. Pulling as far as they could judge directly over the 
spot, the men paused, and resting on their oars, looked 
about them. Nothing was to be seen. They looked at 
Louandre and grinned. 

“ The sea tells no tales ; but, sacr'e, I.ouandre, it was 
well for you that she came on board in the darkness.” 

Louandre did not reply. The loss of Morna was just 
then more terrible than the consequences of her death. 
Loathe to resign all hopes of regaining her, he lingered 
still, staring savagely at the water. But the crew grew 
impatient — they were not in love with the girl — the breeze 
was freshening — they were anxious to be away, for the 
affair would have an ugly look should it come to light and 
inquiries be made. As cowardice and brutality generally 
go together, these men who had hunted a defenceless girl 
to death shivered for the consequences of the deed. So 
without more ado, they pulled back to the “ Hortense,” 
leaving Morna behind them in the sea. 


** SHAKE HALVES FOREVER'' ETC 


3)7 


CHAPTER XLV. 

“shake hands forever, cancel all our vows.- 

I N the sea, half buried in the breaking waves, but swim- 
ming with strong strokes towards the land. 

It was very dark. She could scarcely calculate the 
distance between herself and the shore, but she saw the 
lighthouse gleam, and heard the sounding surge. The 
leap into the sea had confused her senses, so that for the 
time being she moved like one in a dream, unable to realize 
what had taken place. She struck out automatically, with 
the ever present instinct of self-preservation. Suddenly, 
however, all her excitement returned to her, her heart beat 
wildly, her hands trembled violently, for she distinctly 
heard the boat from the ship pursuing her. The splash of 
the oars came nearer and nearer, mingling with the sound 
of human voices. The boat was guided direct to the spot 
where she lay. Presently it paused, and above the sound 
of wind and sea she heard the excited voice of the mate. 
Again the oars were dipped in the water, and the boat 
came swiftly on. As it did so, she quietly closed her C3^es 
and sank deep down into the sea. 

When she rose again, all was quiet around her. The 
boat was many yards aw'ay, returning to the ship. Once 
more she sw^am with strong strokes towards the light-house 
point. 

It was a hard task to make progress through the black 
water of the bay. The rising wind was blowing seaward, 
the tide ebbing fast, and the ground swell was heavy. 
'Phe water rising in great black waves urged her back to- 
wards the open sea ; and her clothes, saturated with the 
water, hung heavily upon her, greatly impeding her pro- 
gress. Although she was a powerful swimmer, such 
strength as hers could not avail for long. The broken 
water beating into her face blinded her, the sobbing of 
the wind and the surging of the sea deafened and confused 
her ; all her power seemed ebbing away, until grown weary 


THE DARK COLLEEN. 


27S 

with the struggle she cast herself upon the surface of the 
water, and floated on the swelling waves. Perceiving, 
however, that the ebb tide was washing her further and 
further from shore, she again, turning her face towards 
the light-house gleam, commenced to make for the land. 
Forcing an unnatural strength into her limbs, she rose 
upon the great black waves, and fought for the point 
where the light-house stood. At last she came within a 
few yards of the shore. 

'I’he waves rolling with low murmurs shoreward, broke 
with a thunderous roar upon a great promontory, which 
jutted out some distance from the land. If she swam in 
there, Morna felt that she would be dashed to death 
against the rocks, and being ignorant of the coast, she 
knew of no bay or creek where she could land in safety. 
Swimming out a few strokes, she rose in the water and 
looked again. It was quite impossible to proceed further. 
The rocks, forming the great promontory beneath the 
lighthouse, seemed to stretch some distance along the 
coast, for as far as the eye could see the waves rolled 
shoreward, and filling the air with sea-smoke, broke with a 
sullen roar under massive crags. 

A long distance ofi flickered the faint lamp-lights of 
the town. Before she could gain the quay, her strength 
would fail ; already she began to feel exhausted, and her 
limbs were turning icy cold. All she could do, was to 
swim along the coast and try to find some place where she 
might land. 

Turning again, she struggled along, watching the white 
surf breaking between her and the shore. If the moon 
would peep out only for a moment to show her the nature 
of the coast, she might have been able to land in safety, 
but the sky was covered with heavy clouds, and a drizzly 
rain was casting a black mantle above the sea. 

At length, however, the prospect of the coast changed. 
The water breaking into one unbroken line of white surf, 
flowed back with a dull sound, as if it washed on the 
shingle.'- 

Then Morna, feeling, that her strength was gone, and 
that any further struggle with the elements would be im- 
possible, hurriedly uttered a prayer for the mercy and pro- 


SHAKE HANDS FOREVER,'^' ETC. 


279 

tection of the saints, and with a strange trembling at her 
heart struck in towards the shore. She swam slowly out 
of fear, but the waves rising high, washed her on, until 
they cast her, dazed and half-conscious, on dry land. 

Still feeling dazed, and only half conscious, she yet 
struggled to her feet, and ran rapidly up out of the reach 
of the waves. Then she stood upon the sand, staring 
vacantly at the water, which, stretching black as jet before 
her, broke into a long line of surf close to her feet. Her 
clothes were wringing wet, her limbs aching, and she was 
shivering with the cold. Her brain, bewildered with the 
mental strain to which it had been subject, was quite un- 
able to recall the past or speculate upon the future, but 
she stared at the sea with vacant eyes, and when the wind 
struck her, shivered through and through. 

Gradually, the strange mesmeric trance which had be- 
numbed her passed off, and she recovered as from a d:-c'':n. 

Turning from the water, she made her way up the 
strand, and reached the land above. Only a few yards off 
stood the light-house; some distance away lay the town ; 
but the intense silence which reigned around her was 
broken only by the wash of the waves, and the wild sobbing 
of the wmd. 

What could she do — where could she go ? To return 
to her home that night was quite impossible ; her knowl- 
edge of the road was so superficial, that she would be lost 
in the darkness ; besides, she was weary with the swim- 
ming, and could scarcely drag her feet along. 

Her first impulse was to do what she would have done 
on Eagle Island, go to the first house for shelter ; so pass- 
ing slowly along, she made her way towards the white 
building, standing straight as a needle upon the rocky 
promontory and casting a lurid light upon the sea. When 
she was still some distance from the entrance to the house, 
however, the door opened, and there appeared upon the 
threshold a peculiar-looking figure, dressed in a strange 
uniform which she did not remember to have seen before. 
The man stood for a moment upon the threshold, shading 
his eyes to penetrate the darkness ; then, turning his head, 
he spoke gruffly in French to some one inside the house. 
At sight of him, Morna shrank away in fear ; and as he 


28 o 


THE DARK COLLEEN. 


passed again into the house, and closed the door, she moved 
slowly away. The scene through which she had just passed 
had unnerved her ; and the sudden appearance of the man, 
the dark look on his face, the angry tone of his voice, 
filled her with a strange sort of fear. 

She would not ask for shelter there. Moving some 
distance from the house, she sat down upon the shingle, 
and rested her aching head upon a rock which lay em- 
bedded in the sandy soil. 

The rain had almost ceased, but the wind still wailed 
mournfully above her, and the darkness around was dense. 
She was very weary, but her brain could not rest. Again 
and again there flashed through her mind the memory of 
the scene through which she had passed on board the 
“ Hortense.” She fell wondering whether the shijD had 
sailed away or had come back to anchor. 

If the latter were the case, she must be careful that 
Louandre did not find her in the morning before she 
returned to her home. Strange to say, her suspicions 
never once centred themselves on her husband, for al- 
though they had misunderstood each other, and something 
had gone wrong, she believed him to be quite incapable 
of cruelty or treachery. Besides, he had loved her once, 
and it did not occur tc her that he would wholly change. 
On Eagle Island, matrimonial felicity was universal. To 
be sure, there was little romance connected with marriage 
and little show of love on either side ; but having once 
consecrated their unions under the sanction of the Church, 
the people remained true to the end. 

As this was the kind of life to which Morna had been 
accustomed, it did not occur to her that her own case 
might differ from the general rule. That evil scheme to 
carry her away could only have originated in the heart of 
a man like Louandre, who, in his wish to make her his 
mistress, had slandered her husband. She would tell 
Captain Bisson all, and perhaps this trial which she had 
endured might be the means of making them more united. 

Wildly the thoughts whirled on, making her soul-sick, 
until at length her weary eyelids closed, and she fell 
asleep, with her ears full of the sound of the breaking 
waves, and the wailing of the wind. 


SHAKE HANDS FOREVER,^' ETC. 


2S1 


When she awakened it was dawn. 

The heavy night clouds were riven asunder, and the 
sky between glimmered blood-red, lighting with a dusky 
light the spires of the city and the surface of the sea. All 
was quiet around her now, as it had been on the night 
before. The windows of the light-house were darkened, 
and all seemed hushed within. Out in the bay, several 
ships lay moored ; but Morna looked for the “ Horten se ” 
in vain. It was not there, and she felt glad. Her head 
was still troubled with heavy racking pains ; her clothes, 
which had partially dried during her sleep, still clung 
clammily about her, and her limbs were aching and very 
cold. Rising to her feet she made her way across the 
point towards the town of Hantour ; once there, she would 
be able to find her way along the high road to Bernise. 
All the city was asleep, and as she entered passing slowly 
along, she saw that the streets were quite deserted. She 
wandered on unheeded, and soon gained the highway. 
Everything seemed very strange to her now, like objects 
one pictures in a dream j even the horrible adventure of 
the night before had now grown hazy, as of the past ; and 
as she toiled wearily along the dusty road, pausing now 
and again to sit on the green wayside to rest, she felt like 
one walking in a vision through a shadowy land. 

Though it was early dawn and the city not astir, there 
were travellers on the road. Brown peasant women carry- 
ing in great baskets to the market, young girls driving 
their heavily laden mules, men rattling along in their wag- 
ons to be early at the market-place ; and as they passed 
the wild-looking figure, with the lonely face and strange 
large wistful eyes, they gazed curiously at her ; some 
laughed coarsely, others more friendly bade her bon joiir, 
while a few threw her coarse words as well as looks. And 
Morna, gazing at them wistfully, passed along, answering 
nothing, because she did not understand. Accustomed to 
seeing oddities on that road, they were by no means 
amazed at Morna’s' extraordinary appearance, but allowed 
her to pass unmolested on her way. By and by, feeling 
her limbs ache wearily, she entered a green field, and 
beneath the shelter of the hedge enclosing the road sat 
down to rest, After a time she rose and travelled on. 


282 


THE DARK COLLEEX. 


It was midday when she wearily made her way into 
the quiet streets of Bernise, and creeping along, almost 
unnoted, looked dreamily around for the house which she 
had been wont to call her “ home.” 

It was very hot. The sunrays poured direct upon her 
uncovered head, and the pavement felt scorching to her 
feet, but on every side of her the shops were thrown open, 
and the glass doors of the little cafes swung to and fro, 
showing to the heated passers-by the cool shaded rooms, 
with the white marble tables and sand-strewn floors. But 
Morna, heedless of all, oblivious to the looks that were 
cast upon her, quickly hurried along until she reached the 
little red brick dwelling. Entering, she crossed the pol- 
ished floor of the hall, noiselessly pushed open the door 
of the sitting-room, and then, half-fainting with fatigue, 
paused trembling upon the threshold. 

As her eyes met those of her husband the worn weary 
look faded away, and her face grew almost bright, and 
from her eyes gleamed that soft wistful look which had 
charmed her lover in the days gone by. He for his part 
stood speechless, staring at her as at some supernatural 
thing, fancying for a moment that he was the victim of 
some optical delusion. His self-possession soon returned, 
however, his blue eyes .sparkled, his white teeth gleamed; 
approaching Morna, he held forth both his hands, took 
hers gently, and led her to a seat. Then with his habitual 
gallantry he turned to Euphrasie. 

She, standing apart, with her pretty shoulders shrugged, 
her lip curled sarcastically, looked from one to another 
with a very meaning glance. More skilled in social com- 
plications than her rival, she had quickly understood the 
true state of things. 

“ So,” she said lightly, rapidly tossing back her golden 
head and smiling in his face, “the screeching fools of 
Hantour were right, M’sieur, and I do not marvel at your 
anxiety in wishing to keep this matter dark.” Glancincx 
at Morna she added, “ Truly, M’sieur, your choice was 
admirable, and it was a pity — was it not? that you could 
not remain content, without wishing to remove me from 
the obscurity of my cafe ? ” 

She spoke in French, lightly, and with assumed gayety, 


SHAKE HAKES EOEEEEE;’ ETC. 


283 

and iVlorna, looking at her, ignorant of the meaning of 
her words and the cause of her presence there, felt an 
admiration for her bright beauty, and listened dreamily to 
the pleasant ring of her voice. But beneath that bantering 
tone there was a sound of determination which struck on 
Bisson’s ear and caused him considerable uneasiness. 
Accustomed as he had been to smooth over difficulties 
before, he was not likely to be at a loss now. He did not 
cast his arms about Euphrasie as he would have done had 
Morna been away, but he glanced in her face and laughed 
pleasantly. 

‘ Indeed, Euphrasie, you are wrong, quite wrong in 
this that you think. When I told you that I loved you 
only I spoke truth.” 

“ Vraiment returned Euphrasie, still in the same 
half-bantering tone, and glancing again at Morna. “Then 
you are accustomed to sheltering vagrants, M’sieur ? so if 
I wed you I must keep my house full of creatures like — 
like that ? ” 

Bisson angrily pulled his mustache. 

“You think this is my mistress, Euphrasie ; bah ! that 
is false. It is only the poor girl whom I mentioned before 
to you, and whom you saw at the chapel here in Bernise.” 

“ ^//, ma foi ! so it is ! ” exclaimed Euphrasie, laughing 
aloud. “ Pardon, but I had forgotten. Then she dwells 
with you ? ” 

“ Assuredly.” 

“ Ah, it was a pity, since this is the case, that you told 
me you had ever dwelt alone. Well, since you have such 
good company when I am away, there will be no harm if 
I retire and leave you now.” 

And she walked towards the door, pausing on the 
threshold to laugh half mockingly in his face, and make a 
profound curtsey to Morna before she turned and went. 

For a time Bisson stood dumb, looking at the place 
where, she had disappeared. Then he turned to Morna. 

She, sitting where he had placed her docile as any 
hound, felt her heart flutter faintly at what she saw, for her 
bright loving look was met by one so cold and cruel that it 
froze her blood, and filled her breast with vague apprehen- 
sions such as those she h^d felt on the night before when 


THE DARK COLLEEN. 


284 

Louandre had taken her away. Eagerly she rose to her 
feet and approached her husband, but he waved her back, 
and asked in those sharp stern bitfer tones, which he knew 
so well how to assume, what had brought her there t 

Morna looked at him in wonder, hearing his words, but 
utterly at a loss to comprehend them. She did not 
attempt to approach him again, for something in his face 
warned her off, but she said quietly, in a low trembling 
voice, 

“ Where would I come if not here ? Sure this is my 
home.” 

Bisson’s lip curled and his shoulders shrugged ; then a 
puzzled expression crossed his face. By what strange 
combination of accidents she was- able to appear before 
him at that moment he could not tell. Either Louandre 
had turned traitor, or there had been some vile blunder in 
the execution of the well arranged plans. Well, she meant 
to be troublesome, that was evident ; she had got into her 
head foolish notions, which he himself must dissolve. 
Though, of course, having a natural antipathy to unpleas- 
ant scenes, he would have been better pleased had the 
weight of his imprudence fallen elsewhere, yet he was not 
one to shrink when occasion required, and when the con- 
sequence of his silence would be the irreparable loss of 
Euphrasie. But although he was hard by nature, and very 
angry for the time being, he. found it difficult to say what 
he thought to Monia while she spoke to him in that 
pleading, gentle voice, and looked at him with those patient 
eyes. 

And Morna, standing with her eyes fixed upon his face, 
felt stupefied. Something extraordinary was wrong, she 
knew, though what it was she could not exactly tell. 
Even now she did not imagine that he was wholly changed, 
nor did she as yet couple the change in him with the 
presence there of that pretty little TTench lady. It was 
strange, she thought, that he had expressed no surprise at 
her disappearance — nay, he had not even mentioned it ; 
he appeared astonished only at her return. Seeing that 
he kept silent, she crept to his side and looking appeal- 
ingly into his face told him all. 

Of Louandre’s sinful suit, of his coaxing her away with 


SHAKE HANDS FOR EVERS ETC. 


2*5 

Captain Bisson’s name — yea, even with his very handwrit- 
ing — of the sailing of the “ Hortense,” of her escape and 
weary journey home. 

And she hurriedly continued, 

“ That is not all, he told me that you love some one 
else, and care nothing at all for me. But then I did not 
think of that ; I knevv' it was not true, for he is a bad 
man.” 

She paused, and smiling into his eyes, slipped her 
trembling hand into his. 

During he-r speech Bisson had remained cold and un- 
moved, but when she spoke of the sailing of the “ Hor- 
tense,” he started and turned pale. 

^'Sacre!^' he exclaimed, “you tell me that the ‘ Hor- 
tense ’ sail and you on board ? ” 

“ Yes, indeed. That man told me that you had sent 
for me, and I went , and wdien I got on to the ship it 
sailed away.” 

“ And you escape then ? ” exclaimed Bisson, looking- 
more and more amazed ; “ tell me how did you do that.” 

“ Sure, I just leapt into the sea,” returned Morna, 
quietly, “ there was nothing else that I could do ; but be- 
fore I did so I prayed to the Virgin to keep yo?/- safe, in 
case I should never see you any more.” 

Coldly Bisson withdrew his hand and stepped a pace 
back. Morna, heedless of his manner, continued, 

“ We w'ill not think of that time any more ; but while I 
was coming along the road to-day, I was thinking, maybe, 
it would be better for us both if we went home.” 

“ Home ? — where } ” questioned Bisson, sharply. 

And Morna, looking trustfully into his face, answ 

“To ILagle Island. Sure we were happy there, but 
here — all is so different and so strange.” 

Hitherto Bisson had listened, expressing neither ap- 
proval nor disgust, but when she spoke of Eagle Island, 
he turned impatiently aw'ay. Was he never to forget that 
hateful place — was the memory of the time he spent there 
— of the foolish vows he made, of the foolish ties he con- 
tracted — ever to be made living to him ; was he never to 
get one moment’s peace, because, forsooth, he had com- 
mitted the imprudence of caring for a peasant girl ? Sacr(f/ 


286 


THE DARK COLLEEK. 


how many loves had he not had before, yet none had 
haunted him like this. She was destined to become Nem- 
esis to him, it seemed, and wreck his whole life’s peace. 
He had thought of her already as of the past; yet she had 
come through trials which would have daunted many a 
brave man, and was here again, haunting him with her 
tearful face and wildly pleading eyes. For the moment he 
felt quite repulsed, and such are the strange contradictions 
of human nature, almost injured. So, shaking off her 
hand, he answered her loving look with an angry stare. 

“ You say right, and if you go back to your savage land 
it will be better ! ” he answered cruelly. “ I tell you be- 
fore, is it not, that it was a pity you ever came away.” 

“ And you ? ” asked Morna, quickly. 

“ It is all different with me ! ” he said, waving his 
hands with something of his old grace of manner. “I like 
better to be where I am ! ” 

Almost the same words as those he had repeated to 
her long ago, but in what a different tone ; and looking at 
him now, Morna could hardly realize that that time had 
ever been. 

“Would you wish me to go alone ? ” she asked, hesita- 
ting, trembling, half fearful of his reply; and he, pulling 
carelessly at his mustache, replied, 

“ Why not ? since I have no fancy for the savages — I 
mean your kin — and you care nothing for Bernise ; yes, 
it is better that you should go, and — leave me here ! ” 

Go away and leave him ? was he mad or dreaming — or 
had he altogether forgotten that dreamy time, which seem- 
ed now so very long ago, when he had poured into her 
ear those intoxicating love-speeches — those gentle words 
which drew her away from her home, her father — all she 
held dear on earth, and made her follow him ? Had he 
forgotten that day, when, kneeling in the little chapel on 
Eagle Island, he had held her hand in his and sworn to 
love her and cherish her all the days of his life — while the 
priest had consecrated this love with the sacred benediction 
of the church ? Had he forgotten that happy time which 
followed, when they had dwelt peacefully in Bernise loving 
and trusting one another, with no malicious soul to inter- 
fere and take his love away.^ Had he forgotten all this, 


SHAA'E //A. YDS EOA'Ei’EE," ETC. 


287 

that he could speak so now ? Trembling with apprehension, 
yet more from eagerness than utter fear, half trustful still 
— she looked again into his face. O, God, how cold and 
cruel, how loveless it looked now ! Could it be that those 
steel-like eyes had shone so softly upon her, that those 
cruel lips had whispered so sweetly in her ear It seemed 
to Morna that she had been dreaming a vague delicious 
dream which had quite faded away. 

“ Maybe, then, it is true what I have heard,” she said, 
simply, “that you would be better pleased if I went 
away ! ” 

Bisson smiled. Parbku ! after all the girl seemed sen- 
sible, and might be brought to reason, to see with his eyes, 
act according to his fine sense of the fitness of things ; and 
if she would do this and leave him quietly as he wished, he 
would be better pleased, since he had a distaste fcr tears 
and unpleasantness generally. He had no wish to be 
cruel, not at all, he merely wished, no very extraordinary 
thing, to change a mistress for a wife, to forget a romantic 
liaisan with a peasant girl, and settle down a respectable 
married man. It was what was done every day, and why 
should he regard himself as a monster merely for following 
in the footsteps- of his fellows. Turning to Morna with 
shameless nonchalance in his face, he spread out his white 
hands and shrugged his shoulders. 

“Assuredly, what better could you do ? ” he said in his 
soft voice, “ since we are not fit — you and I — to dwell to- 
gether ! ” 

“ But you thought differently before ! ’’persisted Morna, 
scarce able to speak; “you said you loved me — would 
always do so ! ” 

Ala foi^ that was a foolish romance,” said Bisson, 
lightly ; “ and pleasant for the time, but it has faded, man 
amie,\s all such things do fade; it is the way of the world, 
and we who dwell in that world, must conform.” 

Morna looked puzzled ; she could not exactly fathom 
such philosophical reasoning as this, but followed her own 
commonplace notions with steady persistence. 

“ If you knew that,” she said quietly, but there was 
now a bitter ring in her voice ; “ why did you bring me 
awav from my home .? why did you marry at all — at all ? ” 


28S 


THD DARK COLLEEN. 


“Because I was a fool!” exclaimed Bisson, angrily, 
betrayed for the moment into passion, by the mention of 
that obnoxious tie, “ because you were bete, and I had no 
other course but to pretend to do so. As to the marriage, 
look you, it was only a farce, and you have no claim 1 ” 

The words were hissed out fiercely in her ear, but Morna, 
turning her white face to his, still looked at him with eyes 
full of imploring love. 

“ Oh, do not speak to me like that I ” she cried, pa.s- 
.sionately ; “ think of all you promised to me before I left 
my home, and do not say whaf is untrue. If my father 
heard that, sure it would break his heart ! ” 

Bisson listened to her, and positively smiled. The idea 
of the islanders — savages who lived in huts no better than 
pig-sties or barns — deeming it dishonor for one of their 
race to have a romantic love affair with a civilized being 
like himself — struck him as in the highest degree absurd. 
But the tragic look of despair on the girl’s face suppressed 
the smile, and caused him to turn angrily away. 

“ Diable ! I am not in the mood to lie I ” he angrily 
returned. 

Her face grew whiter ; she pressed her teeth upon her 
quivering lip, and cried, 

“ When you told me that you loved me then, sure you 
did not speak the truth .? ” 

Bisson angrily knit his brows. Sucre the girl was 
stupid after all, and would not comprehend. 

“ When I say that, I believe as much 1 ” he replied, 
“ but — the dream is faded, that is all, and we will be bet- 
ter apart ! ” 

His dream had faded \ it needed no words to tell her 
that, for in the eyes that looked upon her now there was 
not even pity. And now standing there before him, listen- 
ing sadly to his words, half dazed and fainting with hun- 
ger and fatigue, Morna began slowly and surely to realize 
the truth, and realizing it, her soul sank in hopeless dread. 
For she had loved the man with all the passion her soul 
might know. He had come to her in her lonely home, 
like a bright being from another sphere, and despite the 
trials which she had endured for his sake, her love still 
remained. Too well she understood his words, realized 


“ ADIEU LOVE ! ADIEU LOVE ! ” ETC. 289 

all that be wished her to do, and yet, such was the love 
she had given to him, such the blind devotion of her soul, 
that she, recognizing what he was, that bright god of hers, 
and all the cruelty that he had shown to her, threw herself 
again upon his mercy. 

“ Oh do not sent me away ! ” she cried, in low, agonized 
tones, while her head grew dizzy, her eyes dim with tears ; 
“ for then I should die. Remember how I left my home 
for you, how I left all that is dear to me in the world, and 
do not say to me again what you have said to-night — do 
not say what would break my father’s heart, and Truagh’s 
too ! Oh^ 7navoHrneen^ mavounieen, acushla ^nachree., tell me 
now that you love me as you did in Ireland, long, long. 


ago ! ” 


Again she held forth her hands pleadingly to him, and 
looked passionately into his face, but Bisson thrust her 
back, and she, overcome at last with fatigue and excite- 
ment, fell swooning upon the floor. 


CHAPTER XLVI. 


“ ADIEU LOVE ! ADIEU LOVE ! UNTRUE LOVE ! ” 
HEN Morna recovered her senses, Bisson was gone. 



V V The room had grown quite dark, and through the 
open window the night wind sohly blew. The light of the 
street lamps flickered upon the panes, and the hum of 
voices below dinned in her ears. She felt very faint and 
weary, and she was trembling .with intense cold ; but her 
liands and lips burnt feverishly. Rising to her feet, she 
took a piece of bread from the press, and began to eat 
She felt too dazed to think, or even to ponder on the 
sudden disappearance of her husband ; she only knew that 
he was gone ; so she sat there, weary and listless, waiting 
for his return. 

Would he ever come would he, after what had passed 
return to the spot where he knew he should find her ? and 


9 


290 


THE DARK COLLEEH. 


if he did, to what purpose ? — would he recall what he had 
said, and sue for her forgiveness. Could perfect love ever 
exist between the two again ? Morna believed that it could, 
for with canine faithfulness and gentle womanly trust, she 
clung to her shattered idol still. So sitting there, mechan- 
ically eating her bread, she watched wearily for him whom 
she longed yet dreaded to see. 

The hours dragged slowly on. Darker the room grew, 
and the night wind, whistling softly through the streets, 
grew still more chilly. Morna lit a lamp, and then com- 
menced her watch again. Oh, how wearily the hours 
passed by, how dreary sounded the chiming of the church 
clocks tolling forth the hour ! The tread of feet below 
grew fainter and fainter, then they ceased ; and the church 
clocks chimed midnight. 

Sitting there half dreamily now, Morna started up and 
listened. A measured footstep crossed the hall, a hand 
was laid upon the handle of the door, and the next 
moment Bisson quickly entered the room. For a moment 
Morna sat unable to speak or move, then conquering the 
awful faintness which came upon her, she turned in her 
seat and looked up into his face. He stood opposite her, 
his habitual cigar between his lips, the fingers of his right 
hand softly stroking his mustache, his eyes carelessly 
surveying the room, and lastly, turning coldly and scruti- 
nizingly upon hc?\ When she looked at him the expression 
of his face did not alter, but with that characteristic polite- 
ness which was his second nature, and which in his 
angriest moments he rarely cast aside, he removed the 
cigar, pulled off his hat, and crossing the room, took a 
seat near her. A nearer glance at her made him stare. 

“ AJi^ Dieu ! you have not change your clothes, you 
will catch the cold.” 

Thus reminded, Morna looked down half-vacantly at 
her dress, still damp with the sea-water, and clinging about 
her with a clammy touch which made her shiver again. 
Yet still her hands and brow burnt feverishly, as if the 
hand of death w'ere laid upon her. 

- “ I forgot,” she said. 

“You will take the cold and die,” replied Bisson. 

And Morna turning her weary face to his said, 


ADIEU LOVE ! ADIEU LOVEE^ ETC. 


291 


‘‘ Sure that would not matter, much.” 

Bisson sighed, and shrugged liis shoulders ; then turn- 
ing to her again he looked calmly into her pale face. 

“ I think to find you at rest,” he said, “ but I am, I 
confess, well pleased to see you up. Now what I say will 
be all done before daybreak.” 

* Morna looked curiously at him. There was something 
in this man’s nature which hopelessly bewildered her, 
something which she, much as she had loved him, had 
never been able to fathom, and now as she looked at him 
the mystery around him seemed to deepen. For the 
words which he uttered were softly, almost kindly spoken, 
and yet as she listened to them Morna felt that all her 
hopes of a reconciliation were gone, all her bright dreams 
of future hajDpiness shattered at one blow. So raising her 
head she waited silently to hear more, until bending for- 
ward, still stroking his mustctche, Bisson spoke again. 

‘‘You remember,” he asked calmh^, “what I say to 
you a little while ago ? ” 

Morna nodded her head. Was she likely to forget the 
words which had almost broken her heart, and which this 
man on whom she had wasted her life’s love, could discuss 
so heartlessly now ? 

“ I speak them in anger,” Bisson continued, his voice 
softly modulated, his eyes resting coldly upon her, “ but 
to be honest, I speak truth. I wish not to be cruel, for 
you save my life ; but look, you, we suit not each other, 
you and I, and would be better apart.” 

He paused. Morna was silent ; and Bisson spoke 
again. 

“ On that island you say you live happy, and you will 
live happy there again. I will give you money to take you 
there, and more to make you richer than anyone that stays 
there, and then, ah Dieu ! you will soon cease to think of 
me . And he laughed lightly and pleasantly. 

Still she sat silently watching him, and liisson feeling 
her dark eyes burning upon his face grew ill at ease. The 
girl was a fool, and could not comprehend him ; had he 
not behaved generously to her, and yet she seemed dis- 
satisfied 1 Dull, indeed, must be the understanding that 
could not appreciate such liberality as his. Half the men 


292 


THE DARK COLLEEN. 


of his acquaintance would have unceremoniously turned 
her out ; and yet, look you, he who had behaved so nobly, 
who had first offered her an eligible lover, and next prof- 
fered her money to take her home, and a goodly sum 
besides, was looked upon as an ogre. Had he been deal- 
ing with a cultivated member of society, of a caste more 
nearly equal to his own. he would in all probability, have 
been comprehended and appreciated accordingly ; but a 
savage, a girl who knew positively nothing of the world or 
its ways ! How could he expect to find any rational senti- 
ments here ? 

Impatiently he rose from his seat and turned from her. 
while Morna covering her face with her hands, sank . sob- 
bing in her chair. 

His brow contracted, the edges of his mouth drew 
down. He had thought to avoid a scene such as this ; — 
not that tears affected him, he simply regarded them as 
woman’s prerogative,; but now that he had succeeded in 
making matters tolerably clear with Euphrasie, he was 
anxious to get Morna removed with all possible secrecy 
and speed, lest further unfortunate disclosures should be 
made. And since it was clear the girl would not go peace- 
ably, why other means must be adopted. She had profited 
nothing by his forbearance, she should be spared no 
more. 

‘‘Cease crying and listen to me!” he said, at last, 
angrily assuming by instinct that superior tone of voice 
which a civilized being might be supposed to adopt to one 
of inferior race. “ I have told you my thoughts, that is 
past, you stay not here any longer, — so you go peaceably 
or go by force.” 

Wearily T^Iorna rose to her feet and looked in his face. 
If it came to a question of power, she knew that the victorv 
would be on her side. He had married her, and she could 
if she wished force him to acknowledge her his wife. But 
now that his love was gone so hopelessly, the sacred tie 
which bound them together was but a mockery, a farce — 
which if held to would bring her nought but sorrow and 
degradation. Something of this Morna felt while looking 
into the man’s cold eyes. 

The next moment she wearilv turned awav. 


BALLYFERRY. 


293 


Sure I do not wish to stay,” she said quietly, 
“since — ” 

“Well?” 

“ Since you do not care for me any more.” 

Pah ! the days of sentiment were gone for Captain 
Bisson. He shrugged his shoulders and laughed that soft 
silvery laugh of his. Then taking some gold coins and 
notes from his pocket he turned towards her. 

“ You will be sensible, and go quietly ; that is good, 
and you will profit much. There is a ship will leave 
Hantour for Ireland to-morrow, I have ascertain that ; I 
will see you safe on board, so that you go not wrong ; this 
is for you — it will make you richer than any girl on that 
island — take it, and I pay your fare with more.” 

He almost smiled, and reaching forth his hands, held 
the money towards her ; but Morna gazing into his eyes, 
silently pushed the hand impatiently from her. and passed 
for ever out of his sight. 


CHAPTER XLVII. 


BALLYFERRY. 


HAT followed seemed like a dream. Only vaguely 



vv Morna remembered walking swiftly through the 
quiet streets of Bernise, along the dusty road which she 
had travelled scarce twenty-four hours before, while the 
gray dawn fell coldly upon her, and the few passers-by 
gazed at her again with the same curious looks. Then all 
became darkened and confused. Now she was wandering 
in the stieets ci a great city ; then she was on a steamer 
far out at sea, answering all questions with “ Ireland ” and 
“ home ; ” gazing wildly at the faces which flashed before 
her, listening dreamil)^" to the hum of voices, the gentle 
washing of the sea. When at length the trance wore away 
and her understanding grew clearer, she found herself 
standing in a strange town amidst a crowd of people who 
spoke the English tongue. 

On one side of her stretched the sea, bordered by great 


THE DARK COLLEEN 


294 

coal-wharves and quays ; on the other populous streets and 
dingy slums. Where the town was situated, or what it was 
called, Morna could not tell ; she only saw from the 
number of ships in the harbor that it was a great seaport. 
Why she had been landed there she scarcely knew, since 
the vessel which had brought her had steamed away on, 
and was making its way to sea. Still feeling half stupefied, 
she sat down upon a rough wooden seat erected on the 
quay, and looked at the crowd around her. 

The people were all too busily engaged to notice her, 
and those who did happen to cast their eyes her way, 
doubtless deemed her a beggar ; but by and by, when the 
steamers had all left the quay, the traffic was over, and the 
crowd began to disperse, she found that several men 
paused in passing her and looked curiously in her face. 
Seeing this, she rose and walked away. 

Up in the town the people thronged just as they did in 
the busy streets of Hantour, but few of them noticed her 
now. Mingling amidst the densest of the crowd, she 
slowly travelled on. Night was fast approaching. Already 
the street lamps were being lit, and the. shops illuminated, 
but still the crowd was great, and Morna, helpless and 
outcast, wandered on ; past the grandly-lighted shops, 
until she came to a quiet street where the houses were a 
good deal smaller, the people more ragged and dirty, and 
then she sat down on a doorstep to rest. 

For her feet were very sore, her limbs ached, and she 
felt sick and weary and afraid. Here there were few folk 
passing, and none to notice her, and so resting her head 
against the doorpost she wearily closed her eyes. She had 
not sat long, and was still quite conscious, when she heard 
a voice addressing her, not in strange foreign accents, but 
in the English which she knew so well ; and opening her 
eyes she saw standing before her, in the full light of the 
street-lamp, the figure of a woman. 

A little old woman, small and shrunken, almost in 
rags ; but on her head she wore a muslin cap black with 
dirt and age. A strange smile flitted over her features as 
she fixed her eyes on Morna. When she saw herself 
observed, the smile on her face deepened, she stepped 
forward and said in a low husky voice, 


BALLYFEKRY 


295 

“ Pardon if I disturb you, but 1 was passing by when 1 
saw you, and if you don’t move from there, you will be 
locked in jail.” 

“ For why ? ” asked Morna, rising from the ground. 

“ P)ecause you are sleeping in the street, and that is not 
permitted.” 

Then glancing at Morna’s quaintly cut dress she 
observed, 

“ You come from Normandy ? ” 

“ From Hantour,” returned Morna, ignorant of the 
districts, knowing nothing of the geographical situation of 
the place whence she had come. 

“ I know it well,” exclaimed the old woman puckering 
up her face and rubbing her bony hands. Five-and- 
twenty years ago I saw it, but never since. And you,” she 
added quickly, glancing keenly into Morna’s face, “where 
are you going, if one may ask ” 

“lam going to my homej” said Morna, quietly, “to 
Eagle Island.” 

“ But you seem weary, and want rest. Where will you 
sleep to-night ?” 

“ That I do not know. I have no place, and I know 
of none.” 

The old \voman eyed her keenly. Merciful powers, 
what a simpleton to be cast adrift in a world like this ! 
Coming nearer the old woman laid her hand on the girl’s 
arm. 

“My child,” she said, “ you do wrong to wander here 
alone, for there are many wicked people about, and it is 
dangerous, you may fall into bad hands ; but I will give 
you the shelter of my roof, if you like.” 

“You.?” asked Morna, opening her eyes. Had she 
been on Eagle Island she would have expressed no sur- 
prise, but she had learned that in civilized regions such 
offers were not so generally made. 

“ Assuredly,” returned the hag, puckering up her fea- 
tures again, “ since you come from France, why not, for I 
love French people ; and you, my child, wdth that pretty - 
face of yours, sure you will get into trouble if you remain in 
the streets at night. I am now on my way home, and can- 
not linger. Will you come ? ” 


296 


THE DAEK COLLEEN. 


Morna, believing that the offer sprung from genuine 
kindness of heart, readily consented. What else could she 
do ? To her, this old woman with her shrivelled face and 
bony hands was as good as another, since she knew no 
one ; besides, though she was old and shrivelled she had a 
kind heart. Quite unsuspicious, Morna followed her away. 
Through the streets, past dark alleys and diml)'- lit slums, 
until they came to a lane where the air felt close and' con- 
taminated, where women clothed in filthy rags stood lean- 
ing against the doorposts, and half-drunken sailors bandied 
their coarse jokes, passing in at the doors and reeling down 
the street. And hurrying along, following her guide, 
Morna saw it all, still unsuspicious. Many on Eagle 
Island dwelt in poorer huts than these, and dwelt in purity 
and goodness — the poor were honored in her eyes, the 
lowest slums of a town no less than her own home. 

Presently they paused before a little low dwelling with 
a thatched roof. The door was ])artly open, and the old 
woman pushing it wide, hurriedly thrust Morna in, closing 
and boiling it behind her. 

“ Sure it is a poor place enough,” she said, ‘‘ but better 
than the street, my child.” 

The room was of tolerable size, but meagrely furnished. 
'Fwo candles guttered on the mantle-piece, casting a dim 
ffickering light. On a table set in the middle of the rocan 
stood several glasses, one or two jugs of beer, and a botlle 
of spirits ; and around the table sat several men, evidenlly 
- sailors, playing cards and smoking, while another lay snor- 
ing on the hearth. Morna looked at them and at the 
spirits, thinking, 

“It is a shebeen house, where the sailors come to 
drink.” 

And she began to wish that she had got some oilier 
lodging, for she did not like the look on the men’s faces as ~ 
they turned their eyes upon her. She had heard Barron 
tell of places where they stole folks’ money, and sometimes 
took their lives. Could this be a place like that, — the old 
woman to bring in the victims, the men to rob ? But again 
she inwardly laughed at her fear. It was only a feverish, 
fancy ; sure she had nothing to lose, and as to killing her 
— why what advantage could tliey reap by that ? Still she 


BALL YFERR V. 


297 

would rather be out in the streets, she thought, or on the 
fresh cool mountains of Eagle Island, than breathing this 
atmosphere of whiskey and smoke. 

But she was very tired, and soon her weariness over- 
came all her misgivings. She sat down on the seat indi- 
cated by her guide, drank the milk which was given to her, 
and eat the bread ; tlien folding her hands wearily upon 
her knees, she sat silent. The men at the table played 
on, and drank their draughts o£ spirits, taking no heed of 
her, but from the dark corner where she crouched the old 
woman eved her keenlv. Presentlv attracted bv the glit- 
tering eyes, INIorna rose from tier seat and drew near. 

“ I am very weary,” she said, and if I might, 1 should 
like to rest.” 

The woman rose nimbly to her feet, crossed the floor, 
and inviting hlorna to follow her, pushed open a door and 
entered an inner room. 

A little long room this was, shut off from the kitchen 
by a wooden partition, and holding scarcely more than a 
bed which stood in the corner. With many apologies for 
the meagreness of tlie apartment, the old woman indicated 
this as Morna’s bedchamber, and setting down one of the 
guttering candles upon a rickety table, bade her good- 
night, and left her alone. The room was only thinly par- 
titioned off, and the din of voices reached her still. She 
closed the door, was about to fasten it, but found that 
there was no lock ; it had evidently at some time or other 
been removed. She examined the window ; it did not 
open, but she saw that it looked out directly upon the 
street : she could have stepped from the sill on to tlie 
]-)avement. Had the v/indow been made to open, Moi'na 
would in all probability have made her exit again into the 
streets and spent the night upon the cold hard stones, 
rather than upon that bed ; for despite the polite attentions 
of the old woman, she felt a vague distrust about the 
place which she could n.ot shake away, and weary as she 
was she felt almost afraid to lie down and sleep. True, 
she had no visible cause for fear ; but she dreaded the 
thought of becoming unconscious, the idea of strange 
forms stealing in and out of the room while she lay wrapt 
in slumber. Again she examined the door; if it would 


THE DARK COLLEEK. 


298 

only lock she would feel more at ease ; but there was no 
fastening, — so fain to rest content with the situation as it 
was, she cast herself, dressed as she was, upon the bed, 
and soon fell fast asleep. 

About half an hour after Morna had retired to rest, 
there came a soft tap at the kitchen-window, and on the 
door being opened, there walked in a man, beliind whom 
the door was quickly closed and bolted again. He pulled 
off his cap, threw it aside, nodded griml}^ to those present, 
lit his pipe at one of the guttering candles, and sitting 
down in the shadow, smoked quietly. Presently he raised 
his head and looked at his hostess, who sat opposite 
watching him intently. 

“You go: her, grandmere, is it not?” he asked at 
length in low, guttural tones. 

The old woman nodded her head, smiled slyly, and 
jerked her thumb over her shoulder at the door of the 
room where Morna lay at rest. For a few moments the 
man smoked silently, then removing his pipe from his 
lips, he muttered, 

“ Sacre, but I think it was her ghost since I left her at 
the bottom of the sea. But de saints favor me and the 
devil favor her, it would seem. Look you, she must have 
as many lives as a cat. When I first caught sight of her 
on the quay I was almost afraid, for I never thought to 
see her again alive ! ” 

Fie sat muttering as he puffed at his pipe, and the old 
woman eyed him. Presently she spoke, 

‘ How long do you want me to keep her here ? ” she 
said. 

And the man replied, 

“Two days, or three, perhaps. De ‘ Hortense ’ will 
be unload then, and I can sail.” 

The old woman puckered up her face again. 

“ Three days ! ” she repeated, meditatively ; “ it will 
be a hard matter, for though the girl is stupid, she is wilful 
and anxious to be home.” 

The man laughed ; thrusting his hand into his pocket 
he pulled forth some coins, and slipped them into the old 
woman's hand. 

Foil would do dat and more for me, grandmere, is it 


BALLYFERRY. 


299 

not?” he asked. “The girl is hete, as you say, but you 
are wise.” 

The hag laughed, greedily eyed the coins, and slipped 
them into her pocket. 

Silence followed, broken at times by the half-drunken 
voices of those at the table. The guttering candles flick- 
ered down, the room grew chilly, but fresh fuel was heaped 
into the grate, candles were replenished, and hot water 
steamed upon the table. The pipe which the man was 
smoking went out. He knocked the hot ashes upon the 
hearth, and turning, joined those who sat at the table at 
play. 

For many hours Morna slept heavily, but her sleep 
was sorely troubled, for the strange misgiving and indef- 
inite fears which had beset her ere she lay down upon 
the bed were soon magnified into horrors of the blackest 
kind. She seemed to pass through many impossible dan- 
gers and terrible hair-breadth escapes, until at length a 
horrible sound seemingly uttered close to her ears made 
her start from the bed with a half-suppressed scream. 
She had forgotten where she was, her senses were still 
dulled with sleep, her brain still troubled with her dreams. 
She was trembling in every limb, her heart was beating, 
and a cold sweat was on her forehead. The room was 
quite dark. The noise which had evidently awakened her 
was still going on. She listened wildly. In the room 
adjoining men were fighting, scuffling, and hissing out 
words in the French and English tongues. 

Her first impulse was to rush out, but remembering 
suddenly the scene of the night before, she paused. In a 
flash it all returned to her, and trembling still more, she 
crouched down again beside the bed. The sounds grew 
louder and louder, the scuffling and cursing increased and 
she listened fascinated. Something in those voices affected 
her strangely — what was it ? what could it be ? Quieth/ 
she rose from the bed, crept across the floor, and gently 
pushing the door ajar, looked through. 

The kitchen was lit up, and a bright fire burned in the 
grate, several chairs and stools lay overturned upon the 
floor, and in the middle of the room were two men strug- 
gling. and tearing at each other like wild beasts. The old 


THE DARK COLLEEN. 


300 


woman, the one who had brought her there, clung to the 
arm of one, rattling on in English, and imploring the 
lookers-on to prevent the strife. But they, grown reckless 
with drink, stood grinning imbecilely at the pair. At 
length, however, urged on by the old woman’s entreaties, 
they interfered, and tore the coml^atants asunder. 

Trembling in eveiy limb Morna watched ; but when at 
length the men were parted, she sighed relieved. There 
they stood glaring furiously into each other’s faces, the 
one with his back turned to Morna hissing out curses 
through his set teeth. Presently, when his rage had some- 
what cooled, he shook himself free of his captors, and 
turning round filled out and tossed off a glass of spirits. 
As he did so his features were revealed to Morna, and she 
stared in terror. 

She had recognized the face of Nicole Louandre. 


CHAPTER XLVIII. 


BIRDS OF PREY. 


S she recognized him, Morna crouched lower upon the 



floor, trembling in every limb. What could it mean ? 
Why was he here ? Had there been another trap to get 
her, or was he as yet unaware of her presence? A thou- 
sand speculations filled her brain, only increasing her 
horror. If she had got again into this man’s power, there 
was little hope left for her indeed. She knew him to be 
quite pitiless, and worst of all, she felt that in his way he 
loved her ; this thought only increased her physical repul- 
sion. And, indeed, to-night he looked a figure likely to 
awaken fear and disgust in any being of the other sex. 
His clothes were torn in the struggle, his hair wild,- and 
one or two blood stains disfigured his face. His eyes were 
wild, inflamed with drink, and through his set teeth he 
still hissed curses at his foe. 

As Morna looked at him, her soul sickened. If she 
could only get away from the place, she thought, she 
would sleep in the streets, she would be locked in a jail, 


BIRDS OF PREY. 


301 


sooner than incur the risk of falling- again into this man’s 
hands. Why had she not crept into some lonely alley and 
lain on the ground sooner than follow the woman as she 
had done ? She had been unsuspicious and very weary, 
but if she could only get away now, while they were all 
drinking there, and hide herself in some secret place, until 
she could sail away to her home ! 

She rose to her feet, softly closed the door, and trod 
silently along the floor. Then she again examined the 
window. If that would only open, she could slip out, and 
so creep away. She could not see, for the room was so 
dark ; but she felt all about the window. There was no 
opening ; only one single frame glued all round and nrmly 
fixed. Even had she broken one of the panes, it would 
have been all to no purpose ; she could not get out that 
way. So again she turned away as she had done before, 
quite disappointed and utterly afraid. 

Suddenly she started. The sounds of struggling com- 
menced again, then there was a crash upon the floor. 
Footsteps came nearer and nearer to her door. She stood 
trembling violently, uncertain what to do. Instinctively 
she cas't herself upon the bed and closed her eyes. As 
she did so there was a crash against the door of her room, 
which almost yielded. The struggling ceased, then the 
door was gently opened, and a figure came in bearing a 
light. Morna felt that her heart was beating very hard, 
but she kept her eyes closed. The figure approached and 
bent above her quietly ; the next moment it moved away 
again as gentl}'" as it had appeared. She opened her eyes, 
but still kept her position on the bed. though ail thoughts 
of further rest were gone. She could not sleep again in 
the place with that noise dinning in her ears, and the 
thought of Louandre troubling her, so she lay quietly wait- 
ing for dawn. She determined when the day came, to 
leave the house and wait elsewhere, if she had to wait to 
get a ship to take her home. 

For after all, Louandre’s appearance there might be 
an accident, he might know nothing at all of her presence. 
Since the house was a drinking house and a resort for 
foreign sailors’! it was free to him as to another. 

So she lay speculating while the night wore wearily 


302 


THE DARK COLLEEN. 


away. The noise of the voices in the adjoining room 
grew fainter and fainter, and finally ceased ; the darkness 
passing away gave place to dawn. 

Now Morna saw that the hut in which she had spent 
the night was a dirty hovel, poorer than the poorest on 
Eagle Island ; an unwholesome place, smelling strongly of 
town smoke, stale tobacco, and foul drink. 

When the day had quite broken, and the faint sunrise 
lit up the street, she was still unrefreshed, but so far as it 
was possible she made her toilet, shook out the dust from 
her clothes, smoothed out the folds of her dress, and 
bound up her hair in the thick braids which she had worn 
on Eagle Island, and upon which Captain Bisson’s blue 
eyes had once rested so admiringly. When this was com- 
plete, she gently pushed open the door of the room and 
passed through. 'Fhe kitchen was empty, but there was 
in the air a heavy smell of stale tobacco-smoke and 
whiskey. On the table stood several empty glasses, bot- 
tles and jugs ; black clay pipes and cold tobacco ashes 
were scattered around. 

Morna went to the door. She had no thcught of de- 
parting without a word to the old woman who had brought 
her there, but she wished to step into the sti eet to get a 
breath of fresh air. The door was locked and the key re- 
moved. Morna looked troubled ; what could this mean, 
unless they meant to keep her a prisoner ? She went to 
the window, it did not open ; turning to go to the door 
again, she was met face to face with her hostess. 

I'he old woman wore upon her face the same sly, 
searching grin as she had done on the night before, when 
she had spoken to Morna in the street, and she rubbed 
her hands together as if she were warming them. 

“ Ah, my child, you are early ! ” she said. “ A^ou slept 
well, I hope .? ” 

Morna nodded. She decided to say nothing of Lou- 
andre least her fears might be incorrect, and so involve 
her in an otherwise avoidable danger. 

“ I was very weary,” she said- quietly, and soon fell 
asleep ; but I rose early because I am anxious to get 
home ! ” 

The old woman glanced at her keenly. 


BIRDS OF PREY. 


303 

“Ah, there is plenty of time,’’ she said. “You must 
rest content, for you can’t go to-day.” 

INIorna raised her brows in wonder, but her heart sank, 
and the old fear of the night came upon her again. 

“ Why not ? ” she replied quickly. 

“ Because there is no ship to take you. Eagle Island, 
you see, is a strange wild place, and few go there.” 

Morna did not reply. What could she say or do. 
Knowing nothing of geography she could not contradict ; 
although she felt that the old woman was not exactly 
speaking the truth, or acting honestl}’. So instead of ap- 
pearing suspicious of anything wrong, she merely turned 
away with a half sigh which she could not suppress, and 
the old woman watching her keenly smiled approval. 

But a few hours later when the breakfast was done, 
and strangers began to drop in for their morning glass, 
Morna, wko had been furtively watching each face, again 
rose and prepared to depart. Not stealthily, for going to 
the old woman she thanked her and held forth her hand. 

The old hag smiled again, and edged over towards the 
door. 

“It is nonsense, my child,'’ she said, “to think of go- 
ing, since I tell you there is no ship, and you are strange 
and knovv nothing of the wa3'S of this town. You would 
fall in with wicked people, and get into trouble — worse 
trouble a hundred times than resting in this poor hut ! ” 

Morna listened uneasily. The woman was perhaps 
kind, and she ungrateful, yet the thought that at any mo-, 
ment Louandre might reappear and find her, weighed 
heavily upon her, and she wished to get safely away from 
the place. . Had she been able to tell the old woman her 
true reason for wishing to depart at once, she would have 
been glad ; but this she feared to do, for how did she 
know that the woman was not a friend, perhaps a relative 
of Louandre’s, and ready to betray her into his hands ? 
She stood hesitating, then she said quietly, 

“ It is not because I wish to leave you that I am anx- 
ious to go, for you have been very kind ; but it is two years 
since I leB my home, and sure I am wearying to return.” 

“ Of course, but where is the use ? ” said the old 
woman, edging still nearer to the door, “sure you cannot 


304 


THE DARK COLLEEN. 


swim there, and at present there is no other way. Don’t 
you know it is a long way off, right at the other side of 
Ireland, and then out across the sea ? ” 

Still Morna pleaded. 

“If I might go and learn when a ship would sail, I 
could rest satisfied.'* 

“ Nonsense, child ! Have I not told 3^ou ? Since you 
are well housed, rest content until the time arrives.” 

Seeing that escape was quite impossible, Morna was 
fain to desist for the time being, hoping that a better op- 
portunity would come to her by and by. But as the day 
wore on, and all her efforts to leave the house were quietly 
frustrated, her terrors grew. Sitting on a low stool in the 
corner away from particular observation, she feverishly 
watched each face, listened breathlessly to every voice. 
The day passed by wearily enough, and night came on 
again ; a fresh company gathered around the table, among 
them one whom she remembered, and whom she now knew 
claimed kin with her hostess ; but the face for which she 
had feverishly watched, and which she dreaded to see, had 
not yet appeared. 

“ I have said it, and I have spoken truth — you must 
take the girl away ! for the poor little child is frightened, 
and she grows troublesome ! ” 

“ Two days, grandmere — she has but two days.” 

“And did you not say two, Louandre, when I agreed 
to bring her to my house ? Now they are past and you 
must take her away, — I can keep her no longer,” 

Louandre pushed back his cap, and stared about him 
in a vacant, puzzled way. Then he turned to the old 
woman again. 

“ If you keep her two days more I give you a five 
pound note ! ” he said. “ Let her suspect, dat matters 
nothing, it will be better for me since, look you, grand- 
mere, the girl does not care for me, that I know, and will 
run away from me altogether if dat is possible. But I 
have her now, and by Sainte Marie she shall not go.” 

The old woman grinned slyly. 

“ If I detain her, that is.” 

“ Parbleif^ if you let her go we shall quarrel, you and 


BIRDS OF PREY. 


305 

r r’ and that fierce tiger-like look came into his face 
again. ‘‘ You must keep her, grandmere Coyne ; voilk ! ” 

A gold coin was slipped into the old woman’s hand, 
and she clutched it greedily, then bidding her companion 
good-night she made her way down the street towards her 
house. For a time Louandre stood watching her ; at last 
he too turned, but walked away in quite another direction. 

It was night — dark and cheerless in the streets, but 
the room in the hovel of granny Coyne, as she was called 
by the frequenters of her shebeen, seemed comparatively 
cheerful. It was lit up with its guttering candles, reeking 
with its customary smell of tobacco and whiskey, and filled 
with its usual compan}'. A sprinkling of English, F’rench 
and Irish surrounded the table, busy as usual with cards 
and dice, urged on to desperate play and desperate loss by 
Owen, the eldest born of grann}^ Coyne, and a worthy son 
of that worthy dame. Owen was a stalwart giant of some 
five-and-twenty years, brought' up to the sea as Louandre 
had been, but finally deserting it on making the discovery 
that he could earn a better livelihood as a sailor’s decoy 
ashore. He was not exactly ill-favored, and Morna rather 
preferred him to the others, because he kept sober, the 
better to watch the chances of the game. Beside the lire, 
which burnt low, away from the glare of light, Morna sat 
watching uneasily the faces of all around, but most of all 
that of the old woman who sat in the far corner as if asleep. 

Three whole days had passed since she had entered 
the house, and still she remained a prisoner ; and now, 
since every effort to escape had been carefully frustrated, 
she knew that she was deliberately detained. In vain had 
she appealed, pleaded and prayed ] the old woman had 
only grinned, and endeavoring to pacify her with the hope 
of a sliip in a few more days had still detained her. Why 
she was kept Morna could not tell ; in her endeavors to 
solve the mystery surrounding her she had almost ceased 
to think of Louandre. But was the hope of effecting an 
escape to be altogether abandoned? She thought not. 
Although her supplications to the old woman had been 
unsuccessful, they might, if made elsewhere, bear fruit. 
The hag was heartless and solely without pity, but were 

20 


THE DARK COLLEEN. 


306 

all these men the same, might they not be brought to listen 
to her, since all she wished for was her freedom to travel 
on to her home? Might not the appeal which she had 
made to the mother have more effect if made to the son ? 
Hitherto he had noted her little, but to-night as she sat 
apart in the shadow, she saw that his eyes constantly wan- 
dered to her face, that he seemed somewhat restless, drank 
more freely than usual, and paid less attention to the 
game. Trembling feverishl}^, she longed to speak to him, 
yet shrank back afraid. This was her last stake, and if it 
failed, what would follow ? 

Owen drank again, swept another stake into his pocket, 
and smiled. Glancing hurriedly at the sleeping figure in 
the corner, and trembling more and more, Morna rose 
from her seat, slipt across the floor, laid her hand on the 
man’s shoulder, and whispered — 

“Listen! help me to get away from here, and I will 
.pray for you until I die.” 

. He lifted his face to hers and smiled ; then without 
speaking he put his arm round her waist, drew her on to 
his knee, and kissed her on the lips. This conduct was 
so different to what she had expected, that for a moment, 
out of sheer surprise, she remained quiet. Then suddenly, 
her face red with mortification and shame, she pushed 
away the man’s arm, and without utterijig another word 
returned to her seat in the gloom. The man laughed 
brutally, his companions joined him, one or two congratu- 
lating him coarsely on his good luck, while Morna, shiver- 
ing at every word, drew further and further into the 
shade. 

She knew now that further appeal was useless. Not 
one of these ruffians would assist her escape ; indeed she 
would deem herself fortunate now if they allowed her to 
remain in peace. 

The play recommenced ; more hot water and whiskey 
were placed upon the table, and for a time Morna was 
undisturbed. Presently, however, the whiskey so liberally 
replenished began to show marked effect ; the faces around 
the table grew more excited, and soon to her horror the 
men rose, and leaving the cards and dice behind them, 
approached the spot where she sat. She still retained her 


MOONLIGHT VISIONS. 


307 

place, but kept her eyes turned away. Bringing their 
chairs close up to the fire, they sat face to face with Morna, 
one or two offering her their tumblers to sip from. Trem- 
bling violently, afraid to annoy them, yet resolving if occa- 
sion required to do so, she thanked them for their offers, 
but refused them one and all. 

d'hey laughed, and Owen Coyne coming nearer, and 
putting his arm about her again, demanded what made 
her look so sad. 

“Let me go and I will tell you,” said Morna quickly, 
endeavoring to unloosen the fingers which pressed her 
waist. 

“ Bah ! the hold I have does not keep you from speak- 
ing.” 

“ Yes it does ; I will not answer unless you let me go.” 

He laughed coarsely again. 

“ Then you will keep it to yourself, my dear ! ” he said, 
pressing her waist still tighter, “for I’m not going to let 
go of a pretty girl.” 

He drew her closer, and with his hand beneath her 
chin turned her face to his. She put up her hands to 
thrust him away, in vain ; his arms closed firmly around 
her, his face was close to hers, when suddenly there was a 
loud crash on the oufer door. Instantaneously the arms 
around her relaxed, the men one and all leapt to their 
feet. Fainting and trembling Morna stared at the door. 
She saw nothing ; but outside the window a man stood 
looking at her. 


CHAPTER XLIX. 

.MOONLIGHT VISIONS. 

A mo M ENT afterwards the door opened, and the man 
entered. To him, heedless for the moment of the 
savage forms around her, Morna ran soliciting help. His 
presence brought a thin gleam of hope, but the only one, 
No sooner had she reached the man’s side, however, and 


THE DARK COLLEEK. 


308 

looked into his face, than she paused, and shrunk away 
from him even more wildly than she had done from those 
others five minutes before. He who stood before her 
now, was none other than her old persecutor, Nicole Lou- 
andre. 

When their eyes met, Louandre stood and stared too ; 
then coming nearer, he looked again into her face. 

Sacri’! \s it thouV' he exclaimed, in well assumed 
surprise. 

But Morna did not answer him ; she only cast her 
eyes upon the ground and turned away. Noting this, 
Louandre drew out his pipe, sat down on the other side of 
the hearth, began to smoke, and to take part in the general 
conversation. 

If Morna was aghast at seeing him again, she was still 
more astonished at this behavior. Hitherto she had 
fliought she understood him, now she was puzzled indeed. 
Did Louandre mean to let her alone? That seemed to 
her incredible, after the trouble he had been at to secure 
her ; and if he meant to press his hateful love again, why 
did he turn from her almost indifferently now ? It was all 
a mystery to her ; one of those dark mysteries which she 
knew not how to solve. 

Upon Louandre alone Morna’s thoughts were not 
suffered to dwell long. If his entrance had for the mo- 
ment diverted the general attention from her, it did not 
continue so to do. True — Owen Coyne attempted no 
further overtures, and indeed altogether ceased to regard 
her ; but the other members of the company, who had 
grown weary of play and merry with drink, seemed by no 
means inclined to follow his example. Had Owen Coyne 
behaved himself decently from the first, it is possible that 
the girl’s quiet presence would have remained unnoted by 
one and all ; but the men seeing now no reason why in 
this as in other things they should not follow their com- 
rade's example, pressed around her with drunken freedom, 
and endeavored to make her join their convivial circle. 
Again, expressing on her face the horrible repulsion which 
she felt, Morna shrank away. But the silent appealing 
glances which she cast around brought no response. 

At length one of the men put his arm about her waist 


MOONLIGHT FIS IONS. 


30;) 

and attempted to kiss her, as Owen had done before. Sick 
and frightened she drew back, crying aloud for help. In 
a moment the arm around her loosened its hold, and the 
man was thrown like a log to the other side of the room. 
And Morn a, raising her eyes, saw that the assistance had 
fallen from the strong arm of Louandrc. 

He stood grinding his teeth in fury ; then springing 
once again to the half-dazed offender, shook him furiously 
like a bull-dog, and opening the door, kicked him out into 
the street. 

“ Louandre, be at joeace ! ” shrieked the old woman, 
suddenly waking from her sleep and seizing the mate by 
the arm. “You are too violent, man, and you will ruin 
my house. I shall get no customers, and then who will 
buy me bread ? ” 

Louandre stood with his back to the door, looking, not 
at the woman, but at Morna. 

“ Let the man come in ! ” continued the old woman, 
plucking at his sleeve, but the Frenchman pushing her 
roughly aside, said fiercely, 

“ Let him come, if he wishes, but I tell you, grandmere, 
I will have his life.” 

At these words, those who had been assiduous hitherto 
in pressing their glasses upon the girl, drew back. Owen 
Coyne shrugged his shoulders, and the old woman, seeing 
that her entreaties were of no avail, retired grumbling to 
her corner and to sleep. 

For that evening, at least, Morna was .suffered to remain 
in peace. 

All that night she never closed her eyes. When at 
length the kitchen was empty of all save Louandre, the 
old woman and her son, Morna withdrew into the room 
apportioned off for her rest. Sitting down on the side of 
the bed, she endeavored, as on the night of her first ar- 
rival there, to concoct a plan by which she might effect her 
escape. 

Slowly and surely the net was being woven around her, 
and to what purpose .? Never yet had she been able to 
conceive the old woman’s motive for detaining her there, 
any more than she could guess the cause of Louandre’s 
conduct that night ; she only knew that further difficulties 


310 


THE DARK COLLEEN. 


were rising around her day by day, hour by hour, and that 
the bondage into which she had so blindly, so unresistingly 
been led, seemed more than ever destined to last. Walk- 
ing over to the window, she pulled away the rag whicli 
covered it and looked out. It was a clear night, and the 
bright moonlight streamed down upon the street with cold 
peaceful rays. How many a time had she stood upon the 
crags of Eagle Island watching it as now, noting its light 
as it fell upon the basaltic columns and crags, and bathed 
the far off hills and the sea ! And at such times she had 
gazed far out over the ocean into the dim starry line of the 
horizon, and tried to picture in her brain dim visions of 
that golden world which she believed lay there beyond ; 
that bright peaceful world which like Hy Brasail, the Island 
of the Blest, was to her then only a dim delicious dream, 
but whicli she had so often longed to come and see just 
for a little while, that she might feel the brightness and the 
peace. 

As she stood there looking out upon the moonlit street, 
Morna recalled it all, and large tears trembled on her lashes 
and then rolled down her cheeks. Ah, the old beloved 
home which she had left so long ago ! Would she ever see 
it again ever stand again upon those crags, and climb the 
hills as she had done in the old days } Would she ever 
again see Truagh and her father ? Would she ever get 
out of that dark den, ever be free once more to bear her 
cross in peace. Oh, if they could only hear her call, only 
know that she was in trouble and needed them, she was 
sure that help would come to her even although slie was 
removed to the very farthest corner of the earth ! But 
they did not know, they could not hear her call. She had 
disregarded their counsel, she had left them to follow the 
stranger, and she must suffer ! 

Wearily she turned from the window and fell on her 
knees beside the bed. Her tears were falling fast now, 
her voice was choked with sobs. She put her hand in her 
breast and pulled forth the little ebony cross which Truagh 
had given her, and which, through all her wanderings, she 
had carried with her. Clasping this between her'liands 
she raised her tear-stained face to Heaven. 

“ Holy Virgin, Blessed T.ady that guards my mother’s 


LOUAiVDRE AGAIN. 


3^ f 

soul,” she whimpered in Irish, “ help your poor colleen, that 
she may see her home and her people just once again.” 

As she ceased, her face fell forward upon the bed and 
the tears flowed freely from her bursting heart. 

On that very night, but far awa}', another soul was 
praying. In a cold, empty chapel, — the walls of which were 
saturated with rain, — upon a black earthen floor, knelt a 
little deformed figure, and a tender white face was turned 
to the dilapidated altar where stood a rude stone figure of 
the Virgin holding her Child. 

Keep her and guard her. Blessed Lady,” he said, and 
his gentle voice trembled ; “ and if she is in any danger 
on land or sea guard her safe until she comes home, or 
till we meet in Heaven above ! ” And then covering his 
face with his hands he cried, “Oh, Morna! Morna ! 
acushla as tor a machree 

Cold and motionless the stone figure remained looking 
at him with a silent stare ; around the building the wind 
wailed softly, half drowning the sobbing sound of the sea. 
It was the only answer to his prayer. Cold and uncom- 
forted Truagh rose from his knees and crept away into the 
dark again. 


CHAPTER L. 

LOUANDRE AGAIN. 

N OW it must not be supposed that Nicole Louandre was 
a conventional villain, depraved to the heart’s core, 
and incapable of pity, or any other soft sentiment. On the 
contrary. His life had been a hard one, and from early 
childhood he had been kicked about at sea; first as cabin- 
boy, next as common sailor, and last as mate ; so that he 
had a depraved idea of life, moral and social. Moreover, 
his animal instincts were predominant ; he was pugnacious, 
revengeful, with savage vices and savage passions. Never- 
theless, he had his affections, and his feeling for Morna ' 


3J2 


THE DARK COLLEEN. 


was almost a virtuous sentiment. From the very first time 
that he had beheld her, she had aroused the tenderest 
emotions of which he was capable. She came on board 
the “ Hortense,” he believed, as Bisson’s mistress, dis- 
honored already according to social laws, but on the other 
hand receiving no dishonor in the offer of his own love. 
He, unlike Bisson, had meant to marry her, and had looked 
forward to a life of peace when she should be his wife, ft 
was only when stung by her repulsion, that he determined 
to take by force what he would otherwise never obtain. 
But when he saw how all his former artifices had been 
defeated, Louandre, anxious from the beginning that his 
affection should be returned, had determined that if ever 
the girl again fell into his power, he would gain her own 
willing acquiescence to his wishes. Had he wanted to 
take her away by force nothing could be easier, but he 
would try the peaceable method first, and keep the force 
as an unpleasant after measure. Of what had occurred 
since that night when she had leapt into the sea, and, as 
he had believed, gone down as food for the fishes, he knew 
nothing ; but his knowledge of the captain was such as to 
assure him that her reception at his hands, should she 
venture to reappear in Bernise, would not be of the 
pleasantest kind. Her sudden and unexpected appearance 
on the Irish coast went to prove the sagacity of his sus- 
picions. Well, all things worked in his fav^or it seemed. 
If Bisson had at last appeared in his true colors, why the 
chances were that she might come to consider Loiiandre 
as her best friend after all — which indeed he honestly 
believed himself to be. So with this hope still at his heart, 
he determined to work cautiously, and by the time the 
“ Hortense” was unloaded and ready to sail, to gain her 
consent to marry him, and accompany him to sea. 

When, next morning, Morna issued from her room, she 
found Louandre sitting alone, eating his breakfast of boiled 
fish and loaf bread. When she entered the room, he look- 
ed up and nodded, but neither of them spoke ; for although 
he had protected her on the night before, Morna could not 
bring herself to regard him in anything but an unfavorable 
light. When their eyes met, she merely bowed her head 
and crossed the room, leaving a good space between them, 


LOUANDRE AGAIN. 


313 

For a time there was silence. Then Louanclre, suddenly 
looking up again, gazed full in her face. 

“You know now why I took you on board the ship ? ” 
he asked, and then added quickly, “because he tell me, 

bee iiise he want to get rid of you." His soul to ! He 

is a devil, and deserves you not ! ” 

Morna looked at him, and dimly comprehended his 
meaning. At another time she would have been pained, 
almost heart-broken, at this statement ; now it only con- 
firmed her worst suspicions, and consummating all that had 
gone before, completed the wreck of the idol she had once 
knelt to worship. Although she made no direct 'reply, 
Louandre saw that the announcement had upon her juk 
the effect desired. Coming nearer to him, she said 
quickly, 

“ He told you to treat me so cruelly — you yourself in- 
tended me no harm ? ” 

Louandre’s dark face brightened, as he answered, 

“ Not at all ! Mother of God, I ! No, look you, Lou- 
andre is your friend ! ” 

Had Morna’s situation been less desperate, and had 
she retained a more vivid recollection of the scene which 
had been enacted on board the “ Hortense,” she would 
never, even in her wildest agony, have appealed for hel[a to 
Nicole Louandre ; but the events which had transpired 
since that night when in sheer desperation she had leapt 
into the sea, had confused her brain. Anxiety for her per- 
sonal freedom made her forget all, save the fact that there 
sat before her a being who might loosen the bonds which 
had fallen about her and gain her her liberty. He had 
helped her last night ; might he not do so again ? Glanc- 
ing uneasily at the closed doors, she turned once more to 
him. 

“ Since you have no wish to do me any harm,” she said 
quickly, “ maybe you will help me, now that I am in trouble 
and need it. Sure I do not wish to go back to Bernise, 
never'again — but I want to getaway to my home, to Eagle 
Island and my people — but I cannot escape from here — for 
some reason that I do not know, they detain me. If you 
will help me to go, I will bless you for it all my life ! ” 

Stolidly Louandre surveyed her pale cheeks and large, 


314 


THE DARK COLLEEN. 


sad, wistful eyes. Her face, bright with momentary emo- 
tion, looked more charming than he had ever seen it before. 
But lier blessing ! — well, that was not exactly what he want- 
ed ; his heart was full of passion which he expected to be 
returned. How could he answer her ? Only, it seemed, 
by staring stupidly into her face, and saying nothing. 
Anxious for her freedom, fearful of some interruption. 
Morn a spoke again. 

“ You think it would be possible for you to help me — 
to get me away from here ? ” 

Loiiandre nodded his head. 

“ It would be easy ; I could get you away ! ” 

“ And you will ? ” she added quickly, coming still nearer 
and placing her trembling hand upon his arm ; “ you will 
gerfhe away — will you not ? ” 

Louandre glanced into her face and smiled in very ad- 
miration. That confiding gesture of hers — that appealing 
look which accompanied it — filled his heart with more 
passionate emotion than it had ever felt before. 

“ Yes,” he said, nodding his head emphatically, and 
keeping his eyes fixed upon her face. “ I will help thee 
this very night — thou shalt be quite free, and never see 
the grandmere here anymore, if — ”, 

Ere the sentence could be completed the cabin door 
opened, and the grandmere herself appeared upon the 
scene. With a start, and a look of intense disappointment 
on her face, Morna moved away, while Louandre, scowling 
viciously at the hag, relapsed into sullen silence. 

Although the unwelcome appearance of the old woman 
had broken up the interview, Morna felt now that her case 
was not altogether a desiderate one, and that the chance of 
freedom, which she had once looked upon as a possibility 
only, had now surely resolved itself into a fact. After all 
she might have wronged Louandre. He was far more 
gentle to her than others had been, from whom she had a 
just right to expect kindness ; he had been a tool in her 
wicked husband’s hands, but that was all over. He had 
said that he would assist her to get away. Could it be 
possible that he would keep his word ? 

And now the thought which filled her mind was how to 
gain another interview with him, and to throw herself on 


LOU ANDRE AGAIN. 


315 


his mercy and his love. Louandre had promised certainly ; 
but then that little word “ if,” which he had used, made 
another interview with him a necessity, before he would 
carry out his plans. So she walked restlessly about the 
room, and watched the moving forms outside in the street, 
while, sitting in a corner, quietly smoking his pipe, Louan- 
dre looked at her. Was ever an hour so long, or a day so 
dreary ? Watching and waiting, she felt the minutes pass 
wearily by, and hungered and prayed for the shadows of 
night to fall. At length, and long before the sun had set, 
the opportunity which she had waited for came. The old 
woman retiring for a time into the inner room, left the two 
again alone. Hastening to his side, Morna said hurriedl}', 
“ You said you would help me to get away to-night — 
and you will ” 

“ Certainement.^^ 

‘‘ Yes .? ” 

“ If you go along wid me 1 ” 

In a moment her face fell. 

“ You know I cannot do that,” she said, turning away. 
Parblcu ! why not ? ” exclaimed Louandre, “ since I 
love you twenty thousand times better than he loved you ; 
and look you, I swear it by the Virgin, I will marry you ! " 
Morna answered, trembling violently — 

“ Sure you know I am married already, and it cannot 
be.” 

“ That is false ! ” exclaimed Louandre, quickly. “ He 
tell me so.” 

Morna smiled bitterly. 

“But I tell you it is true,” she said; then she cried 
impulsively, “ but you will help me without that t Ah, yes, 
you are good : you will not let me die of grief ! Help me to 
my home.” 

“ I help you, certaineme7it^ as I say — if — you be my 
wife ; ” said Louandre, doggedly. 

“ But not unless ? ” 

He shook his head. 

“ Not without that.” 

“ Then I will stay.” 

Without further explanation or protest, she left him 
alone in the room. 


3i6 


THE DARK COLLEEN. 


CHAPTFR LI. 

FRI ENDS IN NEED. 

D efeated again, and by the girl whom he had got 
wholly in his power, Louandre trembled with rage, and 
as he left the house vowed that the reckoning between 
them should be short and sharp. She had rejected his 
love once more ; refused his help as he had offered it ; 
openly avowed her preference for any fate to a life with 
him. Well, peace was over between them now, and since 
she would not peaceably give him the love which he 
sought, it should be taken by force. No doubt the girl 
would learn to care for him in time, if she was studiously 
kept from the fascinating captain’s sight, and Louandre 
determined that she should be so kept, although in his 
mate’s company she left the Irish coast. 

“To-night ; ah, yes, she should escape from the hovel 
to-night, as she had wished to do.” He smiled viciously, 
for opi^osition such as this had the effect of rousing ver)^ 
ugly passions in the breast of Nicole Louandre. He had 
promised, and he would be true to his word. Her appeal 
should be answered. As he had said, he would take her 
away. 

Meditating thus, he passed mechanically through many 
dark streets, dirty slums and black by-ways — cesspools of 
the great city, where filth, disease, and vice lie stagnant, 
polluting the air like pestilence ; and as he looked about 
him Louandre smiled. Very suitable for his purpose' were 
such surroundings as these * and at night — one can do dark 
deeds at night without much fear of detection ! So he 
strode on until he left the slums behind him, and entering 
the broader, cleaner streets of the town, soon came down 
to the sea. 

The day was dying, and the fiery rays of the setting 
sun fell blood-red upon the waters, and a soft breeze blew 
from the west. In the harbor many ships lay moored, and 
amidst them the “ Hortense.” Hurrying down to the now 


FRIEA^DS IN NEED. 


317 

crowded qua}", Louandre blew his shrill whistleT^ Enterinp^ 
the boat which present!}^ came off to fetch him, he went 
on board the ship. 

And now, when he was once more preparing to carry 
out his plans, the memoiy of his former defeat came upon 
him. Sacre ! he had been a fool ; but he had grown wiser 
since then, and knew the girl. No mischances should 
befall again, when once he had got her safe and sound on 
board the “ Hortense.” 

When again he left the ship and came on shore he was 
not alone ; following close at his heels were two of the 
sailors of the “ Hortense.” The night had quite fallen, 
but a bright full moon hung in the sky ; all the street- 
lamps were lit, and the shop windows illuminated. Louan- 
dre appeared strangely agitated, and as he went along 
with his two companions, paused continually, and entering 
various public-houses, tasted the strength of the native 
drinks. Thus he made his way with his companions to 
the hut where the old woman lived ; entering which, the 
tv.o sailors joined the general compan}", while the mate, 
retiring to the farthest side of the hearth, sat down in 
sullen silence. 

As the three figures entered the room, Morna, who was 
seated in her usual place by the fire, shrank back in terror. 
Her worst fears assailed her. What could it mean ? — 
why had they come ? Could it be ’that Louandre meant to 
force her av/ay again. She knew that he disbelieved all 
she had told him concerning her marriage, and what was 
worse, she f .It that in his way he loved her with a dogged 
persistence that would not be denied ; and if he were 
disposed to carryout his former plan and take her forcibly 
aAvay, Morna knew that he would be most likely to succeed. 
Where could she get help ? She had appealed to the men 
in vain ; and she might scream herself hoarse in the street ; 
none Avould heed her, for the hovel , in which she was 
lodged was situated in one of the lowest slums of the town. 

She moved feverishly upon her seat, and glanced from 
one face to another in strange unrest, which was heightened 
by the peculiar manner and looks of the men. She saw 
that instead of giving themselves up to pleasure, the two 
sailors from the “ Hortense ” glanced questioningly about 


THE DARK COLLEEK. 


318 

them as if awaiting some order. Following their looks, 
and glancing nervously at the other side of the hearth, she 
saw that Louandre, instead of answering their questioning 
glances was looking full at her. As their eyes met, she 
felt her face flush uncomfortably, while he, turning aside 
his head, shook the ashes out of his pipe, filled it again, 
and recommenced to smoke, once more turning his face 
towards her. 

'Fhe memory of the look which she had encountered 
made her heart beat and her limbs tremble and turn cold. 
For a time she sat in terror, gazing half wildly about the 
room, listening in a sickening dread to the din of voices 
which every moment grew louder, and all the time she felt 
that those piercing black eyes were searching her features 
keenly ; at last unable to bear the torture any longer, she 
turned and again encountered Louandre’s gaze. This time 
the mate’s did not fall, but flashed back into hers a light 
which convinced her of his intentions. F'or a time she sat 
like a fascinated thing, then tears started to her eyes, her 
cheeks burnt feverishly, sobs rose in her throat, and her 
head drooped upon her breast. Leaving his pipe upon the 
hearth, Louandre came over and sat close beside her. 
When he saw the tears in her eyes, he took her hand and 
pressed it gently in both of his. Shivering at his touch, 
she shrank further away.. 

“ Why is it dat you fear me ? ” he asked, a dark shadow 
passing over his face, as he met her look of terror. “ I am 
bad to pent- Hre I hwX. I do you no harm, all I want is 

that you marry me.” 

Morna said nothing, — of what use were her protest- 
ations ? but withdrawing her hand, she shrank further and 
further awa}^ The action was not lost upon Louandre ; 
an angry light darted from his eyes, and his voice had a 
degree of harshness in it when he spoke again. 

‘‘ You go to him — he care nothing for you — you come 
not to me who would give you all. I keep nothing from 
you, nothing at all, that you wish. You live in Bernise or 
in Ireland — which please you — all I wish is to marry you, 
and have you with me for always. Oui dd, if you marry 
me, I swear it, I will take you to that place, to Aigle 
Island.” 


FRIENDS IN NEED. 


3^9 


At the mention of her home, Morna felt the blood rush 
into her heart, and stretching out her hands imploringly to 
the man, she cried, 

“ For the love of God above, and the blessed Virgin, 
help me to get to my home ! ” 

Louandre stared doggedly at her. 

“ I say ‘ yes,’ if you marry me.” 

Again the animation faded from her face, and she 
shrank away. 

“ You do not that ? ” he asked. 

She shook her head, frightened by the strange look in 
the man’s eyes, but made no audible reply. Louandre’s 
face grew very dark, he glanced at the sailors who watch- 
ed him from the table — then he turned again to her. 

“ Dat is unwise,” he said, “ for look you, Louandre is 
a very good friend. If you go peaceably no harm comes 
to you, as I have said, but it is a nasty thing to be taken 
away by force.” 

Morna turned and gazed at him, and her look was met 
by one so dogged and cruel that she trembled again for 
fear. It was true, then, what she had suspected, that he 
meant to carry her away, and for that purpose had brought 
with him some of the sailors from the ship. She glanced 
uneasily at the figures in the room, and noticing the look, 
Louandre smiled. 

‘‘ It is all very well to look at them, but they assist 
you not,” he said, “if I take you away it matters nothing 
to them ; they let you go and I get you all the same. 
Sac're, I kill you not, I care for you ; be wise and come 
with me.” 

Again he took her hand, but with a faint cry Morna 
pulled it away. Then starting to her feet she stood ap- 
pealingly before the old woman of the house. 

“ FI?// will not let him do me any harm,” she said quick- 
ly, “ If you will not let me go to my home, keep me here 
— save me from that man ! ” 

But the old woman only smiled ; why should she inter- 
fere ? she had decoyed the girl there, placed her in the 
man’s power, and was not the price of her work stitched in 
the ragged skirt she wore ? Besides the man was honor- 
able, and meant virtuous marriage, and the girl was a fool 


320 


THE DARK COLLEEN. 


to refuse him. So, although Morna, fast growing hyster- 
ical, clung to her dress begging protection, she calmly 
smiled her answer, 

“ You are a little fool. Louandre is a good fellow, and 
he loves you ; he will be kind to you, if you are quiet and 
do not oppose him, for he has a temper of his own.” 

“ I do not wish to go with him, I only want to reach my 
home.” 

“ Bah ! that is foolish. It is a good chance for you — 
vou are frightened now — to-morrow you will think differ- 
ently.” 

Turning from her, Morna again encountered the gaze of 
the mate. His face was very dark, and she saw a look of 
brute fury coming into his eyes. He approached as if to 
speak again, but with a h 3 'sterical cry she pushed him back, 
and ran towards the window. Gnashing his teeth, he 
spoke rapidly in French to the sailors from the ship. They 
picked up their caps from the floor and turned again 
towards him. Just at that moment the door was thrown 
violently open, and a figure staggered into the kitchen. 
'Fhe men started and paused. Morna ran hurriedly for- 
ward and recognized Owen Coyne. Owen’s eyes were 
glazed, his step was unsteady, he stood in the kitchen 
grinning imbecilely at the men. Dazed with hysterical 
fright, Morna shrank back, as she did so, her eyes were 
drawn to the door, which in his drunken state Owen had 
forgotten to close behind him. For a second she paused, 
then springing swiftly across the floor, she reached the 
threshold. She heard a Avild cry ; with a loud bang the 
door was slammed to, but she was left standing upon the 
stones outside. 

Pausing for one terror-stricken moment in the street, 
half afraid yet aghast, Morna now rushed wildly into the 
night; knowing nothing of the ways of the town, anxious 
only to reach the brightly illuminated streets, and seek the 
protection of the crowd. No sooner was her escape 
observed, however, than Louandre, followed by the two 
sailors, darted out in pursuit. When she heard the foot- 
steps behind her she rushed on more madly than before. 
Before her the moon-rays fell in a luminous stream, but 
i!. - labyrinth of streets confused her utterly. The faster 


FRIENDS IN NEED. 


321 


she went, the more hopelessly confused her way became. 
She rushed on through filthy slums, dark by-ways and 
alleys, and as she went the streets became darker, and the 
footsteps of the men came nearer and nearer. llie 
strength lent to her by the wild excitement of the moment 
seemed giving way. At length the sound of footsteps 
ceased. Turning swiftly down a side street, she had elud- 
ed the sight of her pursuers. 

Faint and dazed, she sat down upon the pavement to 
recover her breath ; another moment, and she heard the 
footste^ps again. What to do ? — her limbs were trembling, 
she was faint and could not run, the street was very dark 
and deserted ; there was no chance of any help. The 
men were coming nearer, a few moments more and she 
would be in captivity again. Sick with apprehension, she 
crept along, still keeping in the darkest shadow, and enter- 
ing a narrow alley which ran into the street, she crouched 
down in terror. This was her only hope of escape. The 
footsteps came nearer — they were within a few yards of 
where she was crouching, when they paused ; her heart 
stood still — a terrible faintness overcame her ; then, as it 
passed away, she heard the footsteps dying in the distance. 
The warm blood rushed to her heart — she laughed and 
cried in strange hysterical delight. 

To remain there was out of the question. She must 
reach the more populated streets, and seek the protection 
of the people. After she had taken a rest, she issued from 
her hiding-place and made her way down the street. It 
was very desolate and dark, save for the faint white light 
of the moon. Flow to gain the bright streets she did not 
know ; all she could do was to walk on and trust to chance. 
She had not gone very far, however, when a hgure issuing 
from a dark alley stood irresolute ujDon the pavement, 
looked up and down the street, and finally made its way 
towards her. Fler heart stood still ; with some difficulty 
.she suppressed a shriek, for in the dim light she recog- 
nized the ungainly figure of Louandre. 

Her first instinct was to Ihde, but she saw that was use- 
less, for Louandre had seen her, so with a curse and a cry 
rushed forward ; but, suddenly fired with new energy, she 
f ! a led his grasp and ran swiftly away. But the struggle 


322 


THE DARK COLLEEH. 


was unequal, the strength was disproportioned, and very 
soon Morna began to fag. The hope which had at first 
sustained her, died away. As she heard the steps come 
nearer and nearer, a terrible faintness seized her, she could 
scarcely see her way. Ah, well ! the fates had been 
against her from the first, and resistance was useless. 
Had there been a river near, Morna would have leqpt in 
and sank to the bottom and died, sooner than fall again 
into that man’s power. There seemed now no single ray 
of hope, for in her inexperience she did not think of the 
police. With a violent effort she ran on ; but she did not 
go far ; her feet flagged again, her senses became clouded, 
her eyes grew dim, she reached out her hands in the air, 
and with a low cry fell. 

Fell, but not to the ground ; a man’s arms supported 
her — a pair of hands turned her face up to the moonlight, 
and a pair of eyes examined her features. As they did so, 
the eyes became fixed ; then in the old Celtic tongue 
which Morna knew and loved so well, a voice exclaimed : 

“ Begorracha ! ” 

It added more solemnly, 

“ By Our Lady and all the Saints, if it isn’t the Colleen 
Vubh 


CHAPTER LIT 

A GOOD CHRISTIAN INTERFERES. 

f N a moment Morna’s half-fainting faculties were revived. 

Rising and turning her face towards the man, she 
wildly threw her arms about his neck, as she cried now in 
the same speech which he had used. 

“ Save me, Barron ! do not let him take me away ! ’’ 
Standing there in her embrace, Barron O’Cloaskey (for 
it was he) seemed at first rather puzzled to understand 
the true state of things, but when Louandre rushed up, 
and Morna with a cry shrank away, he puckered his 
features into a grin, and answered her. 

‘•Save ye, machreel begorracha^ I will. Sure, it isn’t 


A GOOD CHRISTIAN INTERFERES. 


323 


me that would be letting you suffer harm from an 07nad- 
hauii like that ! ” 

With his arm placed protectingly about her, Barron 
stalked away, and presented her to "^old Cullen, who sat 
close by upon the ass. At a first glance, both appeared 
to be just as they were when Morna had known them on 
Eagle Island. If Barron’s hair was a bit greyer and his 
clothes less presentable, his face was as merry as ever; 
and Cullen sat upon his ass with all his old stateliness, 
wliile the moonlight falling upon him, illuminated his 
placid face and silvern hair. 

Stretching forth his hands, he blessed Morna fervently, 
wlhle tears of joy filled his eyes ; and at the sound of 
Morna’s voice, the ass, lifting up her head, brayed her 
welcome. 

But the peaceful meeting was soon disturbed. Lou- 
andre, who had hitherto looked on in amazement, now 
began to dimly understand the true state of things. Ap- 
proaching the group, he again laid his hand on Morna’s 
arm to lead her away; but she crying piteously for protec- 
tion, clung to Barron, who, on offering resistance, received 
a push so violent that it almost overthrew him. 

Barron O’Cloaskey was not of a pugilistic turn of mind. 
Once, indeed, and only once, when old Cullen his father 
had been treated with a degree of contumely which Barron 
considered derogatory to his former position, he had been 
known to fight a pitch battle. But now when he felt the 
push, and saw the fierce face of the man, he hastily threw 
off his cumbersome coat, and returned the blow with such 
vigor that Morna’s hopes rose again. But in this kind of 
work Louandre was no novice, and all his pugilistic pro- 
pensities being aroused l:)y the drink he had taken, he 
returned fiercely ho the attack, striking full, and with a 
pair of huge fists, at the little man’s face. In a moment 
Barron was almost beaten down l^eneath the weight of the 
heavy blows which were dealt him, and Morna cried out 
to him to de.sist. 

“ Barron, he will kill you ! ’’ she cried in terror ; “ stay 
fighting, and I will go ! ” 

But Barron was deaf to her entreaties. He had her 
now, the poor colleeii, wliom they had been grieving for all 


324 


THE DARK COLLEEK. 


these long weary months, and he would protect her with 
his very life. 

The blows rained thicker and faster ; Barron’s strength 
was light compared with that of the sailor; and old Cullen 
seeing how things were going, at length dismounted from 
the ass, and came tottering to his assistance. A poor, 
weak old man, counting nearly a hundred years, how was 
he to render help in a struggle like this t Louandre 
laughed fiercely as he came ; without troubling to clench 
his fist, he gave him a push which sent him tottering back 
wards, and cast him groaning upon the ground. The ass 
coming up to her fallen master, sniffed the air and brayed, 
and gazed at the combatants as if trying to understand. 

It must be confessed that when the battle had com- 
menced, Barron had little thought of its reaching so criti- 
cal and perilous a point. Indeed, all through the struggle 
he had been exerting his vocal powers with the hope of 
obtaining assistance. None had been forthcoming ; the 
street — a lonely back alley of the town — was quite deserted. 
Once or twice during the combat a window had been 
thrown open, and a head thrust out, which, after bestowing 
a curse upon the combatants, hastily withdrew. No one 
thought of interfering ; such scenes as those were of com- 
mon occurrence and caused neither wonder nor alarm. 

So now Louandre, standing there in the savage pride 
of strength, saw that his battle was won. Two weak men 
against him ! By the saints, they had been mad to inter- 
fere ! There lay the old man, faint and trembling with the 
shock of the fall ; there stood Barron with thin streaks of 
blood trickling clown his face, hitting out blindly with his 
poor weak fists at the air. Laughing cruelly, Louandre 
approached the spot where Morna stood shivering and 
pale as death. 

But Barron, half fainting and bloody as he was, again 
placed his small form between them. 

For a moment Louandre paused, then hissing out a 
curse he raised his clenched fist. One moment more and 
it would have come full into Barron’s defenceless face ; 
but suddenly and unexpectedly a third person interposed. 
Was it reason, instinct, or accident, who shall sav? Bnt 
just at that moment the ass. who during the latter part of 


A GOOD CHK/S7'IAN INl’ERFERES. 


325 

the combat had been gazing wistfully into Barron’s face, 
wheeled round, drew up her hind leg, and kicked out with 
a viciousness equalled only on that night when Captain 
Bisson’s right hand had rested upon her back. And Lou- 
andre, standing with clenched fists raised in the air, re- 
ceived the kick full in his side, — and with a groan he fell ! 

For a moment all stood amazed, gazing silently upon 
the man’s senseless form ; then Morna ran to the ass, and 
fell with a low hysterical cry upon her neck. 

Five minutes later the ass, with the old man seated 
upon her back, was gravely making her way through the 
crowded streets of the town ; while on the pavement close 
to her side walked Morna and Barron, the latter envel- 
oped again in the copious folds of his cota 7nor. For 
although Barron was by no means deficient in courage 
when occasion required, he was fully alive to his forlorn 
chances in the fight which had just taken place, and when 
he saw his powerful antagonist stretched helpless on the 
ground, he had deemed it advisable to beat a hasty retreat 
before the man should again recover his consciousness. 
So when the' old man was lifted on the ass, they had 
wandered on, and in deference to Morna’s wish and well- 
grounded fears for her safety, had determined to make the 
l)est of their way out of the town, instead of staying to 
rest for the night, as Barron had first intended. 

For the night was fine, and the moonlight still illumined 
the earth ; so that when they had passed on out of the 
glare of the street-lamps and when the roar of the traffic 
became fainter and fainter in the distance, they were enabled 
to see their way quite clearly. Not one of them spoke. 
Once or twice Barron paused and looked behind him at the 
great black mass visible in the moonlight, but Morna fever- 
ishly clutching at his coat, urged him on. She must get far 
away from the sight of the town before she could rest, 
even the low roar of the traffic increased her fear ; for 
knowing Louandre as she did, remembering the cowardly 
trap which he had set for her when she first landed in 
that town, she deemed it highly probable that, sooner or 
later, he would renew his pursuit rather than allow her to 
escape. Quicker and quicker they trudged on until at 


THE DARK COLLEEN. 


326 

length they entered a quiet lane shut in on either side 
with hedges and green banks, and there they sat down to 
rest, and Barron looking curiously at Morna began to knit 
his brows in dire perplexity. 

“ What in the world are we to do, mavoiirneen ? ” he 
asked. “ Sure his away from all Christian dwellings that 
we are, and the cauliagh herself is tired since she’s had a 
hard day. ’Twas but after entering Ballyferry I was and 
seeking a lodging for the night, when — when — you came 
to me astore ; and though ” — he added hastily — the open 
field is a good enough bed for the likes of us, and many’s 
the time that the old gintleman, the cauliagh there, and 
myself have slept out, yet now that we have yourself — ” 

“ It is good enough for me too,” Morna hastily inter- 
posed. I could not stay in yonder big town, Barron ; I 
would sooner be lying at the bottom of the sea.” 

Barron did not reply, but rising to his feet, and twist- 
ing his hand in the cauliagh' s mane he again led her on. 
He had had a hard day’s tramp, and was very footsore, 
and the cruel struggle with Nicole Louandre had left him 
w'eak ; but to Morna he said nothing of this ; all he did 
w^as gently to urge the ass forward that he might get some 
rest. 

Presently he paused. 

They had wandered about t\vo miles from the town, 
and were now^ in a quiet spot surrounded by bright fields 
and hedgerows frosted to silver in the bright light of the 
moon. Here old Cullen dismounted, and the ass w^as 
dismissed to graze on the green banks enclosing the high- 
w^ay, while Barron led the w^ay through a great gate into a 
field of newly mown hay. First he saw that old Cullen 
was comfortably placed for the night, then taking off his 
commodious coat he offered it to Morna. This she gently 
refused. Barron had suffered enough — she would not 
deprive him of his clothes — hearing which protest Barron 
grinned in his old merry way. 

“ Well, ’tis little use for you to be talking like that, 
rnaclu'ce, for the night is warm. I am steaming like a 
fresh run horse, and at all times I like to feel the breath 
of God about my body.” 

So after a while, seeing that he was obstinate, Morna 


A GOOD CHRIST! A iV INTERFERES. 


327 


lay down upon the fresh cut grass, and allowed Barron to 
spread the coat over her. With a mound of hay for her 
pillow, the moon-rays shining peacefully upon her, and the 
breeze blowing softly in her face, she soon fell asleep. 

All night she slept heavily, but when the light of dawn 
streamed down upon her closed eyes, she awakened with 
a low cry, an 1 leaping to her feet, gazed about her with a 
half-frightened stare. For a time she had forgotten what 
had taken place, but directly she looked at the peaceful 
scene around, it all came back to her. It was broad day, 
and the sun-rays streaming down from a sky of cloudless 
blue fell upon land and sea. There lay the ocean behind 
her, green as malachite, darkened here and there with 
dcej:) purple shades, while around her were fields full of 
golrlen corn, and stretches of bright green pasture-land, 
from which was wafted to her the sweet scent of the clover 
and newly mown liay. Further away, again, were ranges 
of low wooded hills, dimly defined in the distance and 
glimmering through dewy morning mist. All around in 
the green fields, and by the side of green hedges, droves 
of cattle fed ; — some standing in the fields quietly grazing, 
otiiers wading for coolness in the willow-shaded pools of a 
narrow and rapid river. To this river Morna repaired. 
Lifting the water in her hollowed hands, she drank ; then 
loosening the neck of her dress, she refreshed herself from 
the cool current, and binding up her loosened hair again 
hastened back to the spot whence she had come. There 
before her sat Cullen and Barron O'Cloaskey, and the ass 
fed close by. Looking at the two -men now in the broad 
daylight, Morna found that they had changed greatly since 
she went awav. For Barron’s face had grown pinched, his 
body was very thin, wdfile the clothes that he wore were 
now the most dilapidated of beggars’ rags. The old man’s, 
face v/as white and full of heavy wrinkles, while his hands, 
trembled and his teeth chattered with weakness and old 
age. 

When Morna approached, Barron looked up with his 
habitual grin, and cheerfully bade her good morning, and 
the old man, stretching forth his trembling hands, blessed 
her ; after which, they invited lier to partake of food before 
ihev journeyed on. Before sitting down Morna ran to the 


325 


THE DARK COLLEEN. 


ass, patted her neck, and whispered to her as she had 
been wont to do. 

“ When once we get to Eagle Island, not one of us 
shall ever come away from it again ! ” 

But once more, Barron O’Cloaskey urged her to eat, 
and Morna then took her seat beside him on the grass. 
Before them was spread some coarse bread, a piece of 
cheese, and a jug of milk, procured by Barron, with a bowl 
to drink from, from a farm hard by. When the meal was 
over, the remnants of the food were tied up in a cloth, and 
the jug and bowl returned by Barron to their rightful 
owner, and the wayfarers journeyed on ; — old Cullen again 
perched upon the ass, and Morna walking quietly by 
Barron’s side. 

As they passed from the fields into the highway, Morna 
paused to look back at the great town which she was leav- 
ing! There it lay black against the sky, and on its spires 
and roofs the sun-rays fell, while volumes of black smoke 
ascended darkening the unclouded blue. For a moment 
she stood and gazed quietly, then turning, she saw that 
Barron’s eyes were fixed curiously upon her. She smiled 
sadly, and pointing again to the town said, 

“ I used to dream of places like that, Barron, when I 
was a little child, and I thought them finer than my home ; 
but now I know them, and I think, maybe, it would have 
been better for me if 1 had never come awav from Eagle 


Island.” 


CHAPTER LIII. 


HOMEWARD. 



'OR many days the vagrants travel on ; old Cullen, 


^ who has grown more feeble than ever since his struggle 
with Louandre, seated upon his ass, while iiarron aTid 
Morna tramp along the dusty roads by his side. Their 
way lies inland, past big towns and small villages, through 
great green stretches of land fruitful with the coming 
harvest, and their feet are always going farther and farther 


HOMEJVARD. 


329 

from the sea, for they are crossing Ireland straight as the 
crow flies. 

During the day the vagrants pause at times to play 
their instruments, and so win bread ; each night, entering 
some small roadside cabin or barn, they sleep upon beds 
of straw. 

Barron, with his eternal grin upon his features, and his 
tongue never quiet, trudges on uncomplainingly, watching 
as he goes the careworn face of the girl, and when, as is 
sometimes the case, he sees tliat her footsteps flag and her 
cheek grovrs pale from weariness, he thinks it well that 
the old gentleman should dismount and take his turn of 
walking, while JMorna tak^^s his place upon the ass. As 
for Barron, he is never weaiy, or rather, he will never ac- 
knowledge the fact. Although his last remaining shoe has 
at last deserted him, compelling him to walk barefoot, 
which he ha.s seldom done before, he will not acknowledge 
but what the ways of destiny are kind ; for isn’t it as good 
for a man, and a great deal better too, when he has to 
tramp about the world, to have his feet free to feel the 
warmth and softness of God’s earth, and not to be kept 
back and made weary by an encumbrance which was never 
intended by Almighty God to weary the limbs of his crea- 
tures ! So all he does, when he feels his feet growing 
tender, is to j^ause for a moment amid the cool waters of 
some rippling mountain stream ; after which, feeling him- 
self refreshed, he returns again to his place beside the 
ass, and tenders his help to either of his companions who 
happens to be on foot. And every night ere he stretches 
his weary limbs upon his bed of straw, he prays to the 
good God to send them fair weather until he gets the poor 
colleen home. 

'I'he days pass by one after another, and each day is 
fair as the prospect around them ; the midsummer sun 
shines from a sky of unclouded blue, and subtle summer 
scents blend with the soft air they breathe. A gentle 
breeze sweeping over the corn, and lightly swaying the 
green foliage of the trees, now blows the travellers on to- 
wai'ds the ocean ; for having reached the centre of Ireland 
they are again proceeding seaward. 

It is a long, weary journe}', and Barron, although well 


330 


THE DARK COLLEEN. 


used to such pilgrimages, begins to grow footsore. Eager 
to reach her home, Morna urges him quickly on ; yet still 
he bears his load uncomplainingly, and racks his busy 
brain for cheerful stories, \vhich may lift the weight from 
the poor colleens heart. Whether or not his words are 
heard he cannot tell, for each day Morna grows more sadly 
silent : walking beside him with dark eyes fixed upon the 
dusty road, or gazing, with a strange preoccupied look, at 
the fair scene around her. When they pause to play their 
instruments and earn bread, she sits apart, gazing at the 
figures winch gather about them, like one who looks at 
objects in a dream. 

At last the journey ceases. With lagging steps the 
travellers pass through the smoke begrimed town of Crome, 
and embarking upon one of the smacks which lie in the 
harbor, sail out upon the western sea. And Morna, sitting 
in the smack, and listening again to the solemn sound of 
the water, feels her pulses beat with strange rapture and 
fear. Memories crowd upon her, and make her heart- 
sick ; but that dumb load of pain seems to fade from her 
eyes as she turns them upon the sea. 

There is a fair wind blowing from the land, and the 
smack slips swiftly through the bay ; slowly the town re- 
cedes farther and farther from her sight until it altogether 
fades away, and they see on every side of them the dim 
horizon line. 

Still she sits motionless as a statue with her gentle 
eyes lixed sadly upon the sea. As if in sympathy with 
the mingled feelings of joy and sorrow which fill her aching 
lieart, all the forces of nature seem subdued. The wind, 
blowing the smack to sea, gently touches her burning 
check, the sea-birds hover above her head uttering low 
cries, hgures pass before her in a strange dim dream ; and 
in a dream too she hears the cheering sound of Barron’s 
\ oice. At last, leaning her head against the smack’s side, 
she falls into a troubled sleep. 

When at length, she opens her eyes, she sees a dark 
mass like a bank of cloud rising slowly out of the sea ; 
then she is conscious again of the sound of Barron’s voice, 
and as she gazes, through a blinding mist of tears, she 
knows that she is looking upon her home A 


flOMEWARD. 


331 


confused mass of hills and crags, a great black shadow on 
the surface of the twilight ocean, with one white line all 
round where the surge is breaking, Morna’s eyes gaze 
steadily now, and the tears running down her cheeks fall 
warm upon her hand. Still that sad dream clouds her 
senses, as the mist of tears obscures her sight, and she is 

only vaguely conscious of what is taking place 

But she sees the dark shadow coming nearer and 
nearer, growing more distinct in shape as she watches. 
Then she is conscious of the sails of the smack flapping 
heavily about her, of the sudden dying of the wind, of 
figures hurrying to and fro, lastly of a firm arm being 
placed around her, leading her away. Whither she cannot 
tell, but she goes mechanically, and when she pauses, she 
is standing alone upon the beach looking vacantly at the sea. 

It is night on Eagle Island. There is no moon. Now 
and again the clouds peat, revealing the dim light of a star; 
the wind blows softly, making a gentle moan, and on the 
earth around there is dead stillness and peace. Again 
she hears a voice sound in her ear ; again she feels an 
arm placed protectingly about her ; but this time she 
shrinks away. 

“ O Barron, Barron, I cannot go ! ” 

Barron O'Cloaskey looks into her white face in wonder. 
What can it mean } Hitherto she has urged him on until 
he has grown quite weary ; yet now that she has reached 
her home, she dares not cross the threshold. The little 
man is perplexed ; he is about to speak, when the figure 
of a man, which is passing along the cliffs and is attracted 
by the sound of voices, makes its way to the beach below, 
and pauses within a few feet of where Barron stands, 

“ By St. Patrick, then 3 ^ou’re welcome, Mr. Barron ! ” 
cries a sonorous voice ; then with a friendly laugh it adds, 
‘‘ And is it good company that you have along with you ? ” 
At the sound of the voice, Morna shrinks away, cover- 
ing her face with her liands ; then she runs forward, and 
falling upon her knees at the man’s feet, raises her agonized 
face tO' his, while Barron O'Cloaskey, nervously pulling off 
his battered hat, replies, 

“ ’Tis but a poor colkcii, your reverence, that would be 
glad of your reverence’s blessing 1 ” 


332 


THE DARK COLLEEN. 


At sight of the white face, the priest (for it is Father 
Moy), stares aghast, exclaiming in his highly-pitched 
tones, 

“ What in the name of all that is holy brings you back 
to Eagle Island ? ” 

Roused from her stupor by the genial tones of the 
priest, Morna cries, 

‘‘ 0, Father Moy ! I have sinned against the good 
God, against my poor father, and against you ; can you 
ever forgive me ? ” 

“Forgive you, my poor colleen ! and why wouldn’t I ? ” 
replies Father Moy, his genial face softened by the look 
of affection and sorrow. “ Come,” he continues, taking 
her hands, “tell me what has happened to you at all, tlmt 
you come back to us like this ! ” 

Rising to her feet, Morna creeps close to the side of 
her kind pastor, and hurriedly tells her story, speaking 
quickly in the Irish tongue. She pauses, and for a few 
moments the priest remains silent. Then stretching forth 
his little fat hands, he rests them tenderly upon her head. 

“ May God Almighty bless you, my poor coUee7i, as 
Father Moy blesses you, sure, I was never better pleased 
in my life, than I am to see your face this night ! ” 

Then he puts her trembling hand upon his arm, and 
leaving the vagrants to follow, leads her up towards her 
home. 

“ Isn’t it the duty of the shepherd,” he says, “to bring 
back the poor stray sheep to the fold, and make the hearts 
of his people glad ? Sure, I’m better pleased than if I’d 
got a hundred pounds, that I was passing by the cliffs this 
night.” 

This time Morna does not speak. She trembles vio- 
lently, and pausing now and again, glances half-fearfully 
at the dim, flickering lights w-hich penetrate the darkness 
surrounding her ; but the genial tone of the priest’s voice, 
and the kind pressure of his hand, give her courage. They 
pass several figures on their way, but their appearance 
creates no suiprire. It is too dark for any one to see 
Morna’s face, and the priest, as he passes on, gives them 
a careless good-night. 

At length they reach Dunroon’s hut. 


•HOMEWARD. 


333 


Leaving Morna outside in the darkness, the Priest 
pushes open the door, and enters. And Morna creeping 
to the window, looks in. 

There is the room, looking just as she had left it, just 
as it had been when she dwelt there long ago, before 
Captain Bisson came to the land ; and there in the ingle 
sits her father, working at his nets, just as he had been 
wont to do, when she had sat beside him, reading to him 
from the Irish Bible which Truagh had taught her to under- 
stand. But if she sees no change in the room, it is differ- 
ent when she looks at him. He seems to have grown quite 
old. His black hair is sown with \\1iite ; his powerful 
frame is bent, and on his features there is a dull, heavy look 
of inertia which smites the spectator to the heart. 

When the priest enters the room, Dunroon pushes the 
nets aside and rises to give him welcome. And Morna 
sees that although the Priest’s face is grave, he slaps her 
father upon the shoulder, and addresses him in his usual 
boisterous hearty manner. As the priest speaks, Dunroon 
starts, and for a moment the lifeless look passes from his 
face, and his eyes gleam with something of their old light ; 
and when the priest, watching him nervously, speaks again, 
Morna sees that his features contract strangely, and that a 
look of wild delight gleams from his eyes. She can re- 
strain herself no longer. Uttering a low cry, she runs into 
the house, and begging for his forgiveness, falls sobbing 
and crying on her father’s breast. 

A few hours later, a quiet party gathers in the kitchen 
of the King. Morna sits by her father’s side, with her hand 
clasped tightly in his ; old Cullen O’Cloaskey is enthroned 
in a stately manner by the fire ; Barron stands grinning, 
delighted, close by ; Father Moy, straddling upon the hearth 
with his head thrown well back, and his eyes on his 
favorite black bottle, relates a funny story to make them 
glad ; while in the centre of the room, lying full lengh upon 
the floor, the ass (whose good services have not been 
passed over unapplauded) rests her gentle head near Bar- 
ron’s dusty feet, 


334 


THE DARK COLLEEN. 


CHAPTER LIV. 


SEA-WASH. 



Y noon the next day it was commonly known on 


Eagle Island that Morna had returned to her home. 
The news had been wafted into every cabin-door; to the 
cauliaghs as they lingered by their hearths ; to the fisher- 
men as they toiled wearily upon the sea ; and in due 
course to Truagh O’ More, as he sat at home mending the 
fishing-nets. 

When the truth was told him, Truagh turned with a 
shuddering tremor from the speakers’ eyes. Was lie glad 
or sorry ?— he hardly knew. He had been longing for her 
return, praying for it night and day — the saints had 
answered his prayers, and yet, he did not seem content. 
It could not be because Morna had returned outcast and 
alone ; for Truagh confessed to himself, that had she sud- 
denly appeared before him with the “ strange man ” by 
her side, his warmth of welcome would hardly have been 
increased by the event. 

iV few hours later he walked down the hill to Dunroon’s 
hut. Finding the house empty, he turned again and 
wandered away down to the sea-shore. The day was fine, 
but very cold, for the first hoar-frost had come, and had 
whitened all the hills. Tlie ocean lying before him was 
dead calm, save around the pillars of the Moruig Dubh, 
where the water broke into seething foam. Along the 
sands lay the fishing boats, filled with their nets and crews, 
just preparing to row^ away for the night’s fishing. 

For many weeks past Truagh had not been able to join 
the fishermen and do the w’ork in which he formerly ex- 
celled. A subtle disease, with which he had been from 
youth upwards threatened, had taken hold of him and de- 
prived him of his strength. His breath failed, his heart 
seemed w^eak and faint. Instead of going out to sea, he 
remained at home, earning his livelihood by making new’ 
nets and mending old ones for the men. 


SEA-M^AS//. 


335 


As be stood watching the boats pulling away upon the 
sea, his eye became attracted to a figure standing amidst 
the rocks some hundred yards away, looking also towards 
the sea. A slight girlish figure wearing a peasant’s gown 
and red petticoat, with a white scarf wound about her 
shoulders, leaving her head bare and exposing thick masses 
of dark hair. Truagh stood and trembled. 

It was Morna. 

She stood there waving her father good-by, just as she 
had been wont to do in the old days before she went away. 
With trembling frame Truagh remained gazing ; and for 
the moment it seemed as if that long weary time of her 
absence had never been but in a horrid dream, as if the 
old brijjht times had come back ao:ain as thev were before 
the “ Hortense ” went down on the Creag na Luing and 
the Frenchman was washed on to those shores. 

Presently, pulling in procession through the Moruig 
Dubh the boats disappeared, and turning slowl}^^ Morna 
walked up the rocks to the spot where Truagh stood. On 
beholding him she paused, and with the old bright smiles 
illuminating her face, eagerly held out both her hands. 

Neither spoke. It was enough for Truagh to stand 
there feverishly clasping her hands, and gazing silently into 
her face; his soul was too full for words. Was this not 
ample recompense for all the weary watching and waiting he 
had had ? 'Po feel her touch, to look into hcrfa.cc, that\yas 
all he had asked, and that had been at last vouchsafed him. 

She had come back to him at last, and for the moment, 
intoxicated by his strange delirious pleasure, he forgot that 
all his devotion fell upon barren soil. For Morna, standing 
there with her hands clasped in his, was thinking, partly of 
him, but most of that other who had stolen all her love 
and cast it away. 

When she raised her head her eyes were dim. Quickly 
brushing her hand across her eyes and smiling sadly, she 

3,slvCcl 

“Then you are not going to the fishing to-night, 
Truagh ? ” 

Fie shook his head. 

“It is two months now since I was out. I cannot 
bear the cold and wet, so I mend nets at home.” 


33 ^ 


THE DARK COLLEEK. 


She did not answer. vShe was thinking, he fancied, of 
that strange time spent with him far away from her home. 
Bat at length the vacant look passed from her face, she 
turned her eyes to his, and asked softly. 

Will you come with me, 'Fruagh, round by the cliifs } 
It is lonesome at home, and I should like to see the 
old places ; but I could not bear to go if 1 had not com- 
pany.” 

In silence he consented, and they went together down 
the face of the cliff and along the shore. 

Of the past, neither of them had spoken. To Truagh 
it was a closed page, which he longed, yet dreaded to 
open ; but Morna was silent, partly from shame, and partly 
from a wish to avoid the mention of one whom she had 
once held dearer than_ her life. She knew that Truagh 
had always been against him, and now she deemed that 
he was partly right, and yet she felt that great as had been 
her sorrow and pain, she could not endure that one person 
should cast a slur upon her husband, and by inference on 
her love. 

Silently they walked on side by side as they had been 
wont to do ; and yet not so — for there was a strange feel- 
ing between them which neither could understand or ex- 
plain away ; it seemed like a cold hand holding them 
together yet keeping them well apart. The day faded 
fast. The grey sky grew greyer, the hills were whitened 
with hoar-frost, and the snowy peaks glimmered brightly 
afar ; and Morna and Truagh, sitting for a space to rest 
amidst the rocks and boulders scattered upon the shingle, 
turned their faces towards the sea. Far away, where sea 
and sky met, a white line of light falling from the broken 
clouds touched the surface of the water and brightened it 
to a light like dewy starlight. All around them was very 
peaceful ; the silent hills, the great grey cliffs, the softly 
trembling ocean. All seemed asleep. 

Calm was all nature as a resting-wheel. 

Now and then a sheep bleated from the heights, and 
a cow lowed softly ; — those were the only sounds they 
heard. 


7 ROUE LED WA I'ERS. 


337 


With her elbows resting upon her knees, and her chin 
in her palms, Morna sat gazing at a dim foreshadowing of 
the mainland visible through the dewy light, and beside 
her sat i ruagh, watching her. Presently he drew near to 
her and spoke. 

“Tell me, Morna, astore,'" \\^ said, softl}-, “did you 
find the world yonder pleasant and fine as Barron used to 
say ; like the pictures in the books he brought us long 
years ago, when we sat here and read them by the sea .? ” 
Morna did not reply. Rising quietly to her feet, she 
walked slowly away, while he followed. Still she did not 
answer, but presently she turned her face to his, put her 
hand fondly upon his shoulder ; and he, gazing into her 
tearful eyes, read his answer there. 


CHAPTER LV. 


TROUBLED WATERS 



'I ME passed very quietly on Eagle Island. Wearily 


and slowly the days went by, and there was no 
change. The land was prosperous, and the islanders 
were content. Regularly the boats went out to the fishing 
and returned with good hauls, for the autumn harvest had 
been very good. The women smiled contented by the 
fire, and the gloomy faces of the fishermen brightened into 
life ; the saints had been propitious to them, and they 
were thankful. In a fortnight more Father Moy would 
hold his winter “session,” and then the islanders would 
gather together, and make their peace offerings through 
him to the blessed saints of Heaven. 

To Morna the good harvest brought no consolation, 
the bright faces of the fishermen no peace. The silence 
surrounding her oppressed her like a load, and having no 
labor to occupy her, few homely occupations to interest 
her, her thoughts continued to dwell almost morbidly on 
the old theme. She had thought to come back and lead 
the old life ; but this she found was impossible. Although 
it was all just as it had been long ago before Captain 

22 


THE DARK COLLEEN, 


33S 

Bisson came there-, just as she had expected when, far 
away in those busy cities, she had pictured the home 
which she had left behind — yet, now she was there at 
peace, she felt in her mind a vague disappointment as for 
an unrealized dream. For hours she would wander on 
tiie hills alone, or row in the curragh upon the sea ; onee 
she pulled far out above the Creag na Luing, where she 
had taken her lover, and looked far down through the 
water where his shipwrecked vessel had sunk, as if expect- 
ing his face to look at her from thence. From each of 
these expeditions she returned feverishly restless and dis- 
satisfied, and more than ever as the days crept past she 
haunted the cliffs and the shore. For hours she would sit 
amongst the rocks as she had done on that first day with 
Triiagh, gazing feverishly into the hazy distance where the 
sky blent with the sea. What was it that troubled her ? 
Morna could not tell ; she could not define her own feel- 
ings. She vaguely felt that something had gone wrong 
which could not be set right, and that the peaceful home 
which she had left long ago, would never be the same to 
her again. 

Presently an excitement came which absorbed her 
thoughts and roused her to some extent from the melan- 
choly into which she was falling. Truagh O’More fell 
dangerously ill. For many months he had been ailing, 
but now his feeble thread of strength gave way, and he 
took to his bed. 

And Morna, who had known and loved him from her 
childhood, forgot for a time her own sorrows. She saw 
that his face was pale and pinched, that a bright feverish 
spot burnt on either cheek, and that he was troubled with 
a hard racking cough. Could it be that he was going to 
dfe ? She trembled at the thought ; ah ! then the land 
would be desolate indeed, for although she knew nothing 
of the great love he had borne her so long, she felt that 
his presence there brought her comfort, and made the 
place less dreary than it would otherwise have been. 

“Truagh eroo,” she said, softly holding his hand, 

“ when you are well again, and able to go out, I will row 
you about the cliffs to make you strong ; and we will 
wander about together as we use to do before — before— I 


TROL 'BLED I FA 7 E/^S. 


339 

went away ! ’’ and she stooped over the hand, and kissed 
it. 

'rruagh smiled wearily. It was pleasant to hear her 
talk like that, although he knew th:it the time she spoke of 
might never come. lie had been told once before that he 
must die, and he had felt no sorrow, no regret ; all that he 
had prayed for was that before he went he might look upon 
/ler face. But now that his prayer had been answered and 
she had come, the truth was harder to bear, for there 
seemed now stretching before him a life of peace, and she 
would be by his side. Must he go and leave her, even 
although liis death brought her no gain ? Had it been 
necessary for her future happiness that he should die, he 
would have gone to his grave in calm ; but as matters 
stood lie w'ould be sacrificed to no end. He could help 
her better with his friendship if he lived. 

Perhaps, after all, Tuam O’Deegan was wrong, and he 
would get strong again and live ? O how he prayed for 
life — yearned for it ! how he liked to picture the time when 
he would be walking wuth her as she had said, and listening 
dreamily to the sound of her voice ! 

Doctor Tuam was sent for again, and came. He 
entered the room in his favorite manner, crouched at the 
bedside, and gazed in Truagh’s face as Morn a had seen 
him gaze at Captain Bisson. He boiled up “sayweed '’ 
poultices, swathed Truagli’s chest, worked charms innu- 
merable night after night to no purpose. Truagh’s cough 
grew harder, his face whiter, his strength less day by day. 
At length the exasperated doctor, casting aside his poul- 
tices, apostrophized the stubborn patient in no very ami- 
able terms. 

“ Sure the fairies are against you, and what’s the use 
of working against fhsui ^ Haven’t I tried my best for ye? 
Yes, yes. And don’t ye get wakcr each day just in spite 
o’ me ? Ave ! And what for would 1 be coming here 
wasting my time when the fairies themselves have taken 
grudge against ye, and the saints want ye among them in 
the sky.” 

Hopping over to the fire, the Doctor lit up his pipe, 
crouched upon the hearth and began to smoke. But 
Morna walking over to him asked softly : 


340 


THE DARK COLLEEK. 


“ x\nd is there nothing- that can be done for him, 
Doctor Tuam ? 

'riie doctor raised his head, and stared at her wonder- 
ingly. He had never spoken to her since she came home ; 
indeed he had always made a feint of not seeing her. 
Morna, who dreaded his cross questions and keen eyes, 
had made no effort to thaw the reserve which seemed to 
surround him. Although her anxiety for Truagh had at 
last broken through her fears, it had not clouded the 
doctor’s memory. Resenting the indifference with which 
she had hitherto treated him, 'Tuam puckered up his face 
into a monkey-like grin, and without replying left the 
house. 

After the doctor’s towsy head had disappeared, Morna 
returned to Truagh’s side, and taking up an old Celtic 
volume of ballads, which Barron had brought from the 
mainland long ago, began to read aloud. Truagh listened 
dreamily, and as he did so his face brightened, and his 
gloomy forebodings melted away. 

But after Morna had gone away that night and his 
mother had sought her rest, the old dread came upon him, 
and clasping his hands, he cried for mercy to the great 
God of Heaven. 

The days passed by slowly and sadly. Each day after 
her father had gone to the fishing, or to look after his land, 
Morna made her way over the dreary hills to Truagh’s hut. 
Truagh sitting wearily at home, gazing out upon the ocean, 
looked for her coming as for the sunlight, since she seemed 
to bring new life with her when she entered the house. 
He seemed her sole thought ; she could not do enough to 
give him pleasure. She sat and read to him, and some- 
times, now, she would tell him of that strange land where 
she had dwelt for a time. Dunroon was glad to see the 
change in her, and he thought that she was becoming rec- 
onciled to her home ; but to Truagh, who watched her 
face each day, the truth soon became apparent. Although 
she sat by him continualh", smiling to cheer him, and read- 
ing to abstract his mind, he saw that the deep, sorrowful, 
yearning look in her eyes grew each day more and more 
intense, and that her gaze wandered more than ever over 
the sea. 


FAT/ITTA^ MOV T//ArCIIES II IS BED. 


34 i 


CHAPTER LVI. 

FATHER MOY THATCHES HIS BED. 

A utumn passed away, and winter came. On the far- 
off mountain peaks glimmered patches of snow, the 
ground was hard with frost, and the mountain lakes and 
tarns were coated with thin blue ice. Darkl}^ above all 
the sky loomed, d'he cattle were collected from the hills, 
and pent up in their warm huts ; the fishing curraghs were 
carried up from the shore, and securely fastened with thick 
ropes outside the most sheltered of the cabins, while the 
nets were securely stowed away within. The crops had 
long before been gathered in and safely stored; the sum- 
mer harvest of fish had been dried ; so that the islanders 
could now give themselves up to pleasure. Bright fires 
blazed in the huts, illuminating cheerful faces ; WxQcauliagJis 
spinning in the ingle, the grim, grey fishermen stretched 
lazily upon the beds, and the colleens spinning in the centre 
of the rooms. This winter season was exclusively a time 
of meny-making, and the O’Cloaskeys were in great de- 
mand. Old Cullen, wrapped in his winter coat, with his 
hair falling like snow upon his shoulders, travelled from 
door to door, majestically seated upon his ass ; or sitting 
in the ingle, he recited his little stock of ancient tales, 
while Barron beat his tambourine, and performed his 
antics on the door. 

Life on the island went merrily enough, but in the 
house up yonder on the cliff, the days were sad. Truagh 
grew weaker and weaker, until at length Morna deemed it 
expedient that he should see the priest and be anointed.” 

It was on the night of the day on which the islanders 
made, through the medium of the priest, their annual offer- 
ing of thanks to the saints of Heaven. There had been a 
good deal of excitement during the day, but now the priest 
had gone to his home, and the islanders had withdrawn to 
their own firesides. ILuiroon had gone away to sec that 


342 


THE DARK COLLEEH. 


his cattle were safe and his boat secure. So Morna set out 
alone. 

The night was fine, but intensely cold. As she went, 
the frozen heather crackled and snapt beneath her tread. 
Many of the cabins were lit up, and as she went along, she 
heard the sounds of music and dancing issuing from half- 
open doors. But the hills were very solitary. Down the 
hillsides, the wind blew coldly, nipping the cheek it touclied, 
and then passed, moaning to the sea. Morna walked 
quickly on. At last she came to a gloomy-lookiivg hut 
thatched with straw — a weather-beaten building lik'e a di- 
lapidated cow-shed. After a preparatory knock v/ith her 
knuckles, which was not responded to, she lifterl the latch 
and entered. 

'Fhe room in which she found herself was a damp-look- 
ing apartment, containing a bed, a table, and two chairs. 
The walls were blackened with the rain, the floor felt 
clammy to the touch. A great turf fire burned upon the 
hearth and near to it was scattered a quantity of loose 
clean straw. Pausing on the threshold, Morna heard the 
sound of puffing and blowing, as of some one undergoing- 
great physical exertion j advancing a few steps into the 
room, she glanced around, and then she saw the priest. 

He was standing upon a rickety table, wliich was drawn 
up beside the bed — an ancient four-poster, considered quite 
a ‘‘ Bed of Ware ” by the islanders. He was divested of 
coat and waistcoat, liis shirt-sleeves were turned up to his 
elbows, and his face was scarlet with exertion. Around 
his feet lay a heap of clean dry straw, v/hich he v/as gath- 
ering up in his hands, and which Morna soon saw' was to 
be used for the extraordinary purpose of f hatching the bed ! 

Father Moy, intent on his work, did not for a few mo- 
ments note her presence; and she stood waatching his pro- 
ceedings with some interest. The vrork w'as almost com- 
plete, the priest paused, and cocking his head on one side, 
critically regarded the clean stout thatch which covered the 
top of the bed. Turning his head at this moment, his eye 
fell upon Morna. His face beamed into smiles, he squared 
his shoulders,threw^ up his head, and stared comically at her. 

“ And w^iat in the w'orld is it that brings you from the 
house to-night, machrce ? ” he asked. 


FATHER MOY THATCHES HIS BED. 


343 

Despite the solemnity of her errand, Morna smiled, and 
answered his question with another. 

“ What has caused your reverence to thatch the bed ? ” 

The priest laughed, and before he turned to Morna, 
eyed his work critically again, 

“ Sure, the hut is a bit damp, for the matter of that, and 
the roof has rotted away with the rain ; so Tve thatched 
the bed, to keep the water from dripping on my nose, and 
disturbing my dreams. And by Our Lady,” he continued, 
slapping his thigh ; “ ’tis no bad night’s work neither. Devil 
the l)oy on Eagle Island would have done it better than 
Father Moy ! ” 

Jumping nimbly down from the table, he swept up the 
remnants of the straw, put on his coat and waistcoat, and 
motioning Morna to be seated, sat down beside her on a 
form before the fire. 

“ I was thinking of stepping down to old Murray’s hut, 
he said, “ when my work was done. There they have the 
O’Cloaskeys, Tm told, and there’s dancing galore ; now, in 
the winter-time, fiiacJu'ec, a dance is in no vrays sinful, but 
good for the health entirely. So more power to them ! ” 

But Morna, bending low. and holding her cold hands 
oV'Cr the blaze, answered quietb’, 

“ I wished your reverence to come with 'me to Truagh 
O’Morc ! ” 

“ Ah, the poor boy,” said the priest, throwing back his 
head, and blinking feelingly ; “ I’m greatly afraid he’ll 

not come out of it, for 'tis a good hold of him it’s taken, 
believe me. Are you for going up there yourself to-night ? ” 

Morna nodded her head. 

“ I am just waiting for your reverence, that is all.” 

Idle priest rose, slipped into his pocket a small bottle 
of whiskey and a piece of white bread, and buttoning the 
capacious "folds of his coat about him, threw on his rusty 
broad-brimmed hat, and taking Morna’s hand upon his 
arm, set out to answer his call. 

The night had grown quite dark, the air was very keen, 
and the ground was hard with frost. From amidst the 
shadowy mountains, lying black beneath a blacker sky, 
faint lia-hts flickered here and there as if to light the 
travel] e'j-s on their way, and the air was full of low, sweet 


344 


THE DARK COLLEEN. 


murmurs, and now and again the sound of music was 
blown to them, issuing in faint strains through the half- 
open cabin doors. 

In Truagh’s hut a bright fire burned, and a dim oil- 
1 imp was hung up against the wall. Truagh himself lay 
dressed upon the bed. Entering the hut, the priest 
nodded to him kindly, and called for a glass. Into this he 
emptied part of the contents of the bottle, and gave it, 
with a piece of white bread, to Truagh. When Truagh 
had eaten and drank, the priest hung’ round his own neck 
a long strip of black ribbon, profusely decorated witli 
crosses worked in yellow silk, placed a velvet skull-cap on 
his head, and sitting down by the bedside, throwing back 
his head, and squaring his shoulders, he exclaimed, 

“ Now, Sir, let us hear all about it ! ” 

On the utterance of these words, Morna and Green a 
silently rose, and withdrawing to an inner room left the 
two men alone. 

The confession was over. Traugh paused, and turning 
uneasily towards the priest looked with a strange ques- 
tioning glance into his face. Father Moy was leaning 
back, in his chair, with his legs crossed, and his little fat 
fingers playing imaginary tunes upon his knee ; about his 
lips there, hovered a peculiar smile, not one which had 
been called up by the words of the penitent, but excited 
by a remembrance which flashed across his own brain. 
At last he turned his head and gazed at Truagh, still with 
an unaccountable look of amusement upon his face ; then 
he opened his lips, said “ Ah ! ” several times, before he 
could bring himself to speak. 

“So that’s the way of it, is it?” he said at length. 
“ Well . . . there’s little in that to trouble you, believe 
me. In love, magh t Sure I’ve been in love myself ! ” 

“Your reverence in love?” said Truagh, beneath his 
breath. 

And the priest, throwing back his head and slapping 
his fat thigh, cried, 

“ Bedad I was, then, and yet, bad luck to me, out of 
the fire I came, without a ha’porth of harm, and here I am 
at this present time, a priest of God.” 

Truagh made no remark : he was doubtless too aston- 


FA TIIER MO y 77/ A 7V77ES J71S BED. 


345 

ished and bewildered. The priest squaring his shoulders 
continued, while the cynical smile still hovered about the 
edges of his mouth. 

“ Twas over thirty years ago that happened me, before 
[ was ordained. Oh, by the Lord, I was fairly caught, so 
I was, and not a straw did I care about anything in the 
world but herself. Well, she was a fine colleei/ there’s no 
word of lie in that ; her skin was as white as the foam in 
the milking-pail, her eyes as bright as stars ; and,” added 
leather Moy, suddenly closing one eye and gazing calcula- 
tingly at the rnfters with the other, “ she had a line fortune 
too ! There were seven milch cows and ten heifers, Mr. 
d'ruagh, Sir, a house with twelve acres of land, and one 
hundred pounds in hard cash.” 

“ But your reverence didn’t marry ! ” 

“Marry? — God forbid!” exclaimed the priest, in an 
unnecessarily loud voice. “ What for should I marry her, 
sir ? Devil a word would she have to say to a poor peasant 
like myself that hadn’t a penny in the world if he didn’t 
go into the priesthood. No, in troth, she threw me over, 
and she married a red-headed rascal of a farmer, and T 
went to be ordained with a heavy heart. But I have 
learned, sir,” continued the priest, sternly, “to thank God 
Almighty for a lucky escape. She beat the man that got 
her ; — many’s the time I’ve seen him with a couple of 
black eyes — and she bore him enough red-headed gossoons 
to people a small village on God’s earth. For all that the 
poor colleen was sorely tried, since the man is heavy on the 
liquor, and that is a sore trial to a decent woman.” 

For some time after he had ceased speaking the priest 
remained plunged in deep reverie ; suddenly he threw up 
his head, laughed out boisterously, and merrily slapped his 
fat thigh. So contagious was his merriment, that the 
querulous expression on Truagh’s face disappeared, and 
he began to smile too. When Morna and Creena returned 
to the room, the whole party gathered in a circle around 
the fire, while Father INfoy, relating quaint stories of his 
youth, brightened the faces around him and made their 
hearts feel glad. Presently he rose, and whipping on his 
broad-brimmed hat, took Alorna’s hand again upon his 
arm, and departed. It wns growing very late now, all tlie 


rilE DARE COLLEJAW 


346 


lights were extinguished, and the huts lay in the darkness 
unseen. The hills loomed black through a white mist, for 
the snow had commenced to fall. 


CHAPTER LVII. 


STORM . 


OR two days the snow fell ; then it ceased. The lakes 



and tarns v/ere frozen up, and in the passes of the 
mountains the snow was drifted deep. There were few 
people seen on the heights, for \valking was dangerous ; 
but the islanders, keeping close withiii their huts, piled up 
their turf tires, and closed up windows and doors to keep 
out the . bitter cold. But Morna could not rest at home ; 
heedless of the snow which lay thick upon her path, she 
regularly made her way through the drift to Truagh’s hut. 
Truagh was able to leave his bed now. Since that night 
when he had made a full confession to the priest, his mind 
had seemed more relieved, and his sickness in a measure 
alleviated. Morna was sympathetic and kind ; the gentle 
touches of her hand seemed to have the power of kindling 
in his frail body a wondrous vital spark. 

For several days the snow lay co\’ering the earth, then 
the wind 'went round to the south-east, and the thaw set 
in. At length the drift all melted away, and there was 
only left a faint glimmer of white on the peaks of the 
highest mountains. The wind now blew in fitful gusts, 
veering round from all points of the compass, then dying 
suddenly away again ; the sea was calm, but full of heavy 
swells, as if its depths were troubled by hidden motions ; 
and the great green waves rolling black and glassy towards 
the shore, flowed with a dull heavy roar into the dark 
subterranean caves. 

Ax night strange lights gleamed far out on the horizon 
line. 

At length, from every point of the horizon, dark clouds 
sailed slowly up, and mingling their dark vapors, formed a 


STORM. 


347 

black canopy over the sky. The wind, which for several 
clays had been shifting its points, now blew fiercely from 
the south, with hurricanes of blinding rain. 

“There will be a gale,’’ said Doctor Tuam, who was a 
weather prophet ; and sure enough the gale came. 

The sea came rolling in from the south as if to over- 
whelm the island ; everywhere was blinding spindrift and 
black cloud ; heaven and earth seemed blent, and there 
was a deafening roar as of unceasing cannonades. 

“It is only the beginning,” croaked the doctor, peer- 
ing from his hut like a bird of ill omen, and screwing up 
his weazel eyes to watch the darkening sky. 

Then the men began to look anxious and alarmed. 
Each man went out and examined the thatch on his hut, 
fastened up his cow-shed, and tightened the strong ropes 
securing his curragh to the land. 

Sitting at home, gazing out wearily upon the blackened 
prospect, Morna had carefully noted all these signs. For 
she had witnessed many a storm on Eagle Island. Time 
after time she had sat at home and trembled while the 
house shook to its foundations, and often she had crept 
along the hills to Truagh’s hut, and from its window 
watched the wild surging of the sea. She remembered 
now how many a ship she had known crushed to driftwood 
in the storms, how many a body the troubled waters had 
afterwards washed ashore. This had impressed her little 
then, for she, being young, was unable fully to comprehend 
the terrible nature of the disasters which had occurred. 
But now remembering them, and noting the gathering- 
clouds, listening feverishly to the wildly whistling wind, 
she grew sick at heart. For several days she had not left 
her home, and had not seen Truagh, but had sat by the 
fire reading to her father from time to time out of the old 
Celtic Bible as she had been wont to do in old times. 
Very quiet and gentle she seemed, and Dunroon deemed 
at times that she was content. But each day her face grew 
paler, her eyes more full of anguish, and when, kneeling 
with him each night before the cross, she had prayed to 
the Virgin to send them good weather during the winter- 
time, and keep the storms off the seas, her voice had rang 
out so piteously that he had looked at her amazed. What 


THE DARK COLLEEK. 


34S 

was it that troubled her soul both night and day, and kept 
her from resting peacefully on Eagle Island ? Was it the 
love for the strange man, which, crushed down for a time, 
had sprung up fresh and green in her breast? Morna 
could not tell. She only knew that to her, although she 
was so young, the world seemed cold and very dreary, and 
all things very sad. She got no rest, no peace. Often 
when her father had gone to bed, she would sit upon the 
hearth with her hands clasped around her knees, her eyes 
gazing wistfully into the fire, and listen to the shrieking 
wind, or quietly opening the door, she would gaze out 
through the troubled darkness towards the roaring sea. 

The wind increased. 

It tore at the little huts lying back upon the blackened 
hills ; it clutched madly at the quaking cliffs ; it drove the 
sea waves higher till the spindrift was scattered in large 
flakes of foam over the island fields. By night and by 
day there was a roar sounding far out over the hills, 
awakening the fishermen from their rest, and making the 
caitliaghs moan. And now Morna prayed more fervently 
to the Virgin, while her father, oppressed by a secret dread, 
silently watched her ; all night she lay in her bed listening 
to the sound of the wind, and when she happened to fall 
into a doze her sleep was harassed by terrible dreams. 
Strange voices came to her from the sea calling piteously 
for help ; strange human voices which were almost drown- 
ed in the shriek of the drifting gale. 

One night as she lay in her bed asleep, a wild sound 
rang in her ear, and she started up in terror. What was 
it? Only the wind tearing at the hut, and shrieking shrilly 
over the hills ? She listened intently. All was silent now, 
yet still the echo of that cry rang in her ear ; her limbs 
were trembling with cold and terror, her heart was beating 
hard. 1 he sound which had awakened her from sleep 
seemed real, like the sound of a human voice calling for 
help. With trembling hands she put on her clothes, and 
noiselessly opening the door of her room, passed out into 
the kitchen. 

Many hours had passed since she had sought her rest, 
yet some red embers from the slowly dying fire still lay 
upon the hearth ; collecting these together she went upon 


STORM. 


349 


her knees and gently blew them into a blaze ; then draw- 
ing forward the long form, she sat down and gazed sadly 
at the brightening glow. 

The wind tore at the hut until it trembled through and 
through \ once the whole dwelling shook so violently, that 
she leapt to her feet fearing that the roof had been carried 
away. The cows in the neighboring cow-shed lowed out in 
terror. Again the blast died away with a low eldritch 
moan. Often before had she lain in her bed listening 
dreamily to sounds like this ; but to-night she could not 
rest. Some new fear had taken possession of her, eveiy 
shriek of the wind inspired her with new dread. At last, 
unable longer to sit inactively gazing at the fire, she rose 
to her feet, wrapped a cloak about her, drew the hood over 
her head, and passed out into the night. 

To her eyes, accustomed as they were to the red fire 
glow, all without seemed pitch dark. No sooner had she 
crossed the threshold than she almost fell before the 
violence of the wind. All the cabins lay in darkness, for 
the islanders were at rest ; but Morna saw far away on the 
cliffs a faint light, like the glimmering of a star, and she 
knew that it came from Truagh’s hut. 

Ere she could move a step from the door, tlie wind 
shrieked again around the hut, striking her as it did so, 
tearing the hood from her head, and scattering her hair 
about her face and neck. For a moment, blinded and be- 
wildered, she clung to the gable for support, until the gust 
again abating in violence swept past and left her free. 

Then she asked herself, why had she come 'out there — 
why had she left the shelter of her room, the warmth of 
her fire, to face the wild storm alone ? What could she do, 
wandering there on the desolate hills by night ? Glancing 
upward she saw that the night had well nigh \yorn away. 
Although the falling rain still darkened the air, and the 
gathering clouds hung heavy in the sky, there glimmei ed 
on the far horizon the faint grey light of appioaching 
dawn. In less than an hour the clay would have quite 
broken, and the islanders be all astir. 

Well, it was too late to think of rest now ; she would 
not re-enter the house. Gently pushing the door to see 
that all was secure, she moved away, walking cautiously 


35 ^ 


THE DARK COLLEEN. 


over the heather, and holding forth her hands to feel her 
way. 

But as her eyes grew more accustomed to the black- 
ened mist of rain surrounding her, she could see more 
clearly defined the distant hills and the black line of cliffs 
whitened now and again by the spindrift beaten up from 
the sea. One black cloud loomed above her head ; but 
awMv, over the sea, the vapors drifted in masses across a 
sky forked here and there with flashes of strange ligh.t. 
Again and again the wind struck her with violent might, 
so that she had to crouch upon the ground for safety ; 
and ever as the blast passed away she rose to her feet and 
journeyed on. As she went the light before her eyes grew 
larger, the darkness at her back more dense. She saw the 
white sea smoke rising up from the ocean ; soon it was 
beaten into her face. Her hair and face were wet, and 
her hands felt quite frozen, for it wars bitter cold. Voices 
now came to her from over the sea in low^ pitiful waailings, 
w'hich turned her heart-sick. 

Presently she reached the green-sw^ard carpeting the 
top of the cliffs. Beneath her, she saw' the sea one mass 
of seething, boiling foam. The hurricane, blowdng in 
direct from the ocean, rattled up the biilow-s against the 
cliffs, and flashed the foam into her blinded eyes. Crouch- 
ing dowm, she stared at the roaring, gleaming wmters be- 
neath her, saw the rising weaves, listened to the shrieking 
w'ind. Then she crept along toward Truagh’s hut, w'here 
the light was burning still. 

The dOor waas closed, but through the uncurtained 
window Morna saw' Truagh lying dressed upon the bed, 
while his mother sat aw'ake beside the fire. Lifting the 
latch, she was about to open the door, wTen a violent gust 
of wind wrenched it from her hand and dashed it open. 
With a wild shriek, the w'ind sw'ept her into the room. 
Eagerly Truagh held forth his hand to greet her, and she, 
feverishly pressing his wasted fingers between her palms, 
gazed with fond intensity into his face. 

“ It is a w'ild night, Truagh,” she said, “ I could not 
rest at home, for down yonder the wand is dreadful to hear ; 
and out at sea, ah, God ! it is terrible ! ” 

And Creena, rocking herself from side to side, said, 


BLO IV, BLOIV, THOU W/HTER WIND U' 


“ Aye^ ’tis the beginning of the winter storms. God 
help those who sail the seas this night ! ” 

But Truagh answered nothing ; he shivered and turned 
away. The light in i'ylorna’s eyes appalled him, the touch 
of her hand was like fire, and her face was deadly pale. 
Sending Creena to her rest, she sat with folded hands 
before the fire ; while Truagh, shrinking back upon the 
bed, watched her face. 

Brightly the firelight glowed, illuminating her features, 
and as Truagh watched her, his own face grew pinched 
and worn. Silent, almost forgetful of his presence, she sat 
like one entranced, listening to the wind. Again and 
again she rose from her seat, and pressing her face close 
against the window pane, shaded her eyes with both her 
hands and looked out, and again and again she returned 
to the fire, paler and more harassed than before. Thus 
the hours wore away ; and when the dawn had broken 
over the cold sea, she quietly kissed Truagh on the cheek 
and went away. 

And when she was gone, and the door was closed 
against the storm, Truagh rose in his bed, and called 
Heaven’s cruellest curse upon the strange man who had 
taken her love away. 


CHAPTER LVIIL 

“ BLOW, BLOW, THOU WINTER WIND ! ” 

D ay comes and the storm grows. 

The wind veers round to the north-west, and blows 
another hurricane. It shrieks above the sea ; it tears 
madly at the cliffs ; it falls, as with tooth and claw, upon 
the quaking cabins built everyv/here in the hollows of the 
hills, and shakes them till they seem about to totter and 
fall. Like a great sea-bird the island rocks on the breast 
of the, tenipestuous ocean ; wildly the waves rise around it, 
darkly the sky looms above ; the air is whitened with 
dikes of foam, and the cliffs are enshrouded in spindrift. 
'I’im verv cormorants sit on the crags afraid to venture 


352 


THE DARK COLLEEN. 


out to sea, while the frightened human beings crouch in 
their homes, listening with wild heart-beats to the roaring 
of wind and wave. 

Safely housed and sheltered from the fury of the stoim, 
they watch and wait. 

While the gale rages fiercest, and the foam of the sea 
is scattered wildly up on the hillside and above the graves 
of the dead, one soul lifts up its voice and cries aloud in 
prayer. Not for those who sit in safety upon the land, 
but for those souls who are drifting upon the ocean at the 
mercy of Euroclydon, Woe to those who sail the tempes- 
tuous seas ! The cruel deep yawns eager for its prey, the 
foam flakes weave their shrouds, and the shrieking wind 
moans wild requiems above their graves ! The sea is 
pitiless, the wind is pitiless ; the storm rages fiercer and 
fiercer, while frightened mortals bend beneath its blasts 
like the boughs of storm-tossed trees ! 

Morna’s face is marble white, her eyes large with terror. 
The events of the last year have begun to tell upon her " 
her strength is shaken, her courage gone, leaving her the 
ghost of her old self. She who has been nurtured upon 
the sea — who has ever loved its music — now shrinks back 
before the rising waves like any frightened child. Her 
restless spirit will not be at peace. She hears strange 
murmurings in the air about her. She starts from e^^ery 
sound with a quick nervous dread ; every shriek of the 
wind passes like a knife through her heart ; the wild, 
frightened cries of the women and children recall to her 
other and more piteous cries, which in her sleep are wafted 
to her from the sea. Her bloodless lips repeat a prayer. 
She clasps the crucifix with cold fingers, and begs the 
mercy of the good God of Heaven, while the wind, sweep- 
ing in wild gusts from the sea, shakes the hut until it 
trembles, and shrieking madly drowns the tremulous mur- 
murs of her voice. 

■ Flow often has she not witnessed such storms before ? 
yet now she shrinks appalled, her soul is shaken, a heavy 
load is on her heart both night and day. 

All day Dunroon remains at home, and with his dull, 
)ieavy eyes watches his daughter. The crying of the wind, 
iiie deep moaning of the sea, he heeds little ; but at sight 


BLOIV, BLOW, THOU WLVTBB WIND > " 

oo3 

of her white face his soul is troubled, and at her tender 
cries _ and prayers his features grow dark. He, too, is 
thinking of the sea ; he, too, is conjuring up in his heavy 
brain pictures of stricken souls, shrieking from the beating 
\yaves ; but as he does so, his dark eyes flash with strange 
light, and his features kindle into a look of senii-savasfe 
hate. 

The day brightens, then grows dark. The sky looms 
blacker and blacker, the wind cries louder, and still Morna 
paces restlessly about the room, or sitting by her father's 
side, listens with beating heart to the moaning of the 
wind. 

‘‘ I think the wind is dying, father ! ” she says, eager 
that the storm should cease. 

But Dunroon shakes his head. There is not a broken 
cloud in the sky. He knows that it is winter-time, and 
that the storm must blow itself out. 

“ There is plenty to come yet, Morna, but never fear, 
the old house will stand ! ” 

She does not answer, but her hands tremble, her cheek 
grows paler still. The wind shrieks out again, and she 
utters a low cry. Her safety ? ah, God ! what is that ? 
Were the house to fall in ruins around her she would not 
heed ; but the crying of the sea makes her heart-sick, and 
increases the nameless agony in her soul. 

Night comes ; Dunroon seeks his rest, but Morna 
after vainly trying to sleep, paces the kitchen alone. 
.Strange wailings still fill her ears. She crouches down upon 
the hearth — for it is bitter cold, and resting her chin upon 
her palms, rocks herself from side to side. O, how the 
wind wails, and the sea moans ! Will the storm never 
cease? The very foam from the ocean is driven inland 
and beaten about tlie window of the hut, and the frail walls 
tremble now at every clutch of the wind. 

What is that ? — a dull sound like the heavy report of a • 
gun mingles with the roar of the blast. Morna starts to 
her feet. The sound is dead, and the violent gust of wind 
is passing with low moan beyond the hills. . Now, with 
her face whiter than before, Morna falls upon her knees, 
and lifts up her voice aloud, and the wind cries more 
loudly than before, and the roof trembles more violently 


THE DARK COLLEEN. 


354 

above her head. She brings her face close against the 
window-pane and looks out. It is pitch dark, but all the 
air seems whitened with sea-smoke. Strange murmuring 
voices fill the air, shadowv figures move about in the dark- 
ness, as if in wild unrest Again that sound .... 

A dull, heav}’- boom like the report of a cannon, deadened 
by the wailing wind'. This time a light, like a shooting 
star, penetrates the dense blackness of the night. It 
gleams and fades. Morna’s heart beats faster. She goes 
to her father. He lies fast asleep, untroubled by the 
raging storm, for through long 3^ears spent on the lonely 
island, he is well accustomed to sounds like this. She 
lays her trembling hand upon his shoulder and wakens 
him. 

“Father, I fear something has happened. I saw a 
bright light in the air just now, and I can hear sounds 
from the sea ! ” 

Thus aroused, Dunroon throws on his clothes and 
comes into the kitchen. 

“ Why do you sit up, Morna ? — sure ’tis little use ; the 
wind will blow until the storm is spent ! ” 

Hard and coarse as is his nature, his face grows soft- 
ened as it turns to hers ; he takes her hands, looks into 
her face ; — to his amazement, she is crying. 

“ What is the matter, Morna ? ” he asks. 

She shakes her head ; but the tears trembling on her 
lashes, roll slowly down her cheeks. 

“ I do not know,” she replies gently ; “ I think I am 
not well. I cannot bear to listen to the storm ! 

The strong arms close around her, and she trembles 
in their embrace. Just at that moment the blast grasps 
the hut once more, and shakes it until it rocks like a cradle 
in the tempest ; and as it dies away with a low melancholy 
moan, that dull boom sounds in the air again, and again 
Morna sees the swift starry light. Dunroon hiiuself sees 
now, and hears. His features remain as inanimate as be- 
fore. 

“ It sounds like a signal of distress,” he says grimly, 
“ ’tis another ship, maybe, drifted down upon the reefs. 
The saints protect them, for ’tis little human help they’ll 
get this night I ” 


“ BLO IV, BLOW, THOU WINTER WINDS 35 ^ 

He lifts his weather-beaten hat, and buttons his thick 
coat about him. 

“ I’ll just step clown to the shore and find out the mis- 
chief. Get you to bed, Morna, I’ll not be long away.” 

But Morna, putting her hand in his, says faintly, 

“ If you are going out, let me come too.” 

Dunroon stares into her pale face. 

“ Leave the house — on a night like this ? Sure you never 
can do that, my colleen dubJi. Get you to bed, and rest tliere 
till I come back again.” 

But Morna still clings to his hand. 

“You must not leave me here alone, father; I cannot 
stay ; I should be afraid.” 

Again the tears start to her eyes, and Dnnroon sees 
them tremble on her lashes before they fall. 

“Come, then,” he says, putting his strong arm about 
her, “you shall go, Morna.” 

As he pulls back the fastenings of the door, it is thrown 
violently open with a force which almost shatters it from 
its hinges ; the wind sweeping into the room extinguishes 
the lamp, and scatters the turf ashes, now lying white and 
cold upon the hearth ; striking full into Morna’s face, it 
makes her stagger backwards. .‘Vgain her father tries to 
dissuade her from leaving the shelter of the house ; but she 
is resolute, and he, finally yielding, holds her hand firmly 
in his own, and passes with her out in the night. 

It is still black dark ; a thick cloud covers the sky like 
a jDall. Nothing is visible, but faint sounds are floating 
hither and thither upon the wind, shadowy figures flitting 
liere and there upon the earth, hurrying down towards the 
sea. Dunroon, with IMorna clinging to his arm, has passed 
only a few yards from the door, when he is joined by sev- 
eral fishermen who are hastening shoreward too. The sig- 
nals have been heard, and the island is in commotion. 
Tliere are creatures in distress, and though now nothing 
can be done to save them, a sort of fascination draws the 
fishermen down to the spot of the disaster. 

Oh such a niglit, in such a gale, it is hard walking. 
Again and again Morna pauses, breathless, and shrinks 
back before the fierce wrath of the wind, while all around 
the foam-flakes fly, and the black vapors of the sky droop 


THE DARK COLLEEN. 


- 356 

close down over the earth. At length they reach the cliffs. 
Here, gathered together, talking earnestly, with their faces 
turned towards the ocean, are groups of fishermen. It is 
too dark to see their faces, but Morna hears the low hum- 
ming of their voices, and above the general murmur, rising 
clear and distinct, she recognizes the deep tones of the 
priest. They dare not approach too near the edge of the 
cliff, for the. wind which before has been blowing in steadily 
from the sea, sweeps around at times like a whirlwind, 
shrieking madly around the crags and swooping down 
again upon the shore. Before them rises a white wall of 
foam, from which the spindrift is beaten wildly into 
their faces. It is bitter cold. Morna feels her body shiv- 
er, but on her lips and forehead there is a touch as of fire ; 
so raising her face to the angry sky, she feels with pleasure 
the chilly touch of the wind and the damp breath of the 
sea. 

Suddenly she starts ; — that heavy booming sound which 
she heard'^vhile in the house, comes again. This time it is 
nearer, more distinct ; the sound being caught up by the 
wind is wafted inland, and with the dying wind it fades. 
Morna looks across the sea. Simultaneously with the re- 
port there is a gleam. A great red glare of light as of a 
torch spreads a crimson spot upon the water, and flashes 
up to the blackened sky. As it does so, it illuminates the 
black hull of a ship lying far out in the white wall of water. 
Around the ship the waves rise like mountains, covered 
with sea-smoke, and rolling with a thunderous roar to land. 
In one lurid flash the light illuminates the vessel and the 
water, then it fades, leaving all as dark and desolate as 
before. 

“ That's the third signal,” says Father Moy. “God 
Almighty bless the poor souls on that ship, for Tm greatly 
afraid they’ll never again see the light of day. On what 
spot is she fixed ? ” 

Dunroon replies. 

“Just on the old spot, your rev’rence ; on the Creag na 
Tiling. She’ll be underwater before dawn.” 

His words, uttered phlegmatically enough, make Morna 
tremble. Hurriedly crossing herself, she mutters a silent 
prayer, and turning her white face to the troubled ocean 


'^BLOJF, BLOW, THOU WAV TEA' WIHDS ! 


357 

stares at the spot where she knows the ship to lie. The 
last lurid flash has died away. Darkness hangs dense 
above the wreck, and a white mist encloses it like a shroud. 

As the night wears away the dark cloud in the sky is 
broken into fragments, which are drifted tumultuously 
across the heavens ; the wind blowing fitfully gradually 
lessens in violence, and a heavy rain begins to fall. In the 
east, streaks of wild light are now visible, darting from the 
edges of the broken clouds, and a faint grey gleam per- 
meates the darkness, giving a visionary far-away look to 
all the objects upon which it falls. 

Dawn breaks fast ; still the rain falls heavily, but the 
wind almost dies away — it only murmurs in low moans 
among the cliffs, and cries softly as it fades beyond the 
hills. Shadowy forms are moving hither and thither 
through the morning twilight. The black crowd congre- 
gated on the cliffs still strain their vision seaward. Again 
the wreck is revealed to their sight, but it is not yet seen 
distinctly ; a cloud of sea-smoke rises around it, and the 
rain, still falling heavily, thickens the mist which hangs 
between it and the shore. 

As the dawn advances, the mist clears, and the ship is 
distinctly seen. At the first glance Father Moy crosses 
liimself hastily and mutters a prayer, for it seems that 
every soul on board the wreck must have perished. The 
hull of the ship, lying firmly fixed upon the rock, is now 
and again completely covered by the sea ; for the waves 
rising high around it, break above it, wash across the 
decks, and fall again, a mass of hissing foam, into the sea. 
As they do so, the two broken masts sway violently to and 
fro, and the whole vessel seems to be in imminent danger 
of heeling over and sinking amidst the waves. 

Suddenly there issues from every throat a low cry of 
wonder. The islanders, staring at the visible portions of 
the wreck, have at last discerned, clinging to one of the 
broken masts, the figure of a man. Alive he must be, or 
his hold would loosen, his body fall powerless into the 
water ; but while the waves break below and the vessel 
rocks violently to and fro, he still clings to the yards. He 
cannot swim, that is evident, or in a last desperation he 
might strike out for the shore. The sinking of the ship is 


358 


THE DARK COLLEEN. 


onlv a matter of time, even if the masts are not presently 
washed away, and then there will be no escape ; like the 
other stricken souls who have perished during that storm, 
he will meet his doom. 

And now the islanders, hitherto stupefied, seem to hold 
a silent communion with each other. Superstitious to a 
marked degree, and dogged in all their beliefs, they might, 
if the men were washed senseless to shore, refuse to woo 
him back to life, but to take him off the wreck alive is quite 
another matter, and would not work against their super- 
stitions. But between the wreck and the shore the waves 
rise like mountains, and the solid salt water is still lifted 
up and beaten violently against the face of the cliffs. As 
Dimroon, stepping cautiously forward, looks down, the sight 
appals him. 

“ Devil a boat would live in that sea,” he says. 

leather Moy, crossing himself again looks grave. 

“You’re right, Dunroon ; sure she’d sink half way, and 
then God help you all, for there's not a man among you 
that’s fit to make his way to shore.” 

Then throwing back his head, and squaring his shoul- 
ders, he continues, 

“ Sure, if that poor boy Truagh O’More had the good 
health, ’tis not long he’d be in swimming out to the wreck 
and bringing the poor half-drowned creature to shore. 
Devil the drop of water could drown him^ since the Lord 
has made him to float like a cork upon the sea, and never 
to sink even if he tried. Sure, he’s the only man on Eagle 
this day that could keep his head above those waves.” 

'Fhe priest ceases, and no one answers him ; for the 
fishermen feel that he utters the truth. Launch a boat, 
and the first breaking wave would swamp it, and any one of 
these men, great herculean figures though they be^ would, 
were he plunged into the sea, have little chance of escape, 
d'hey do not care to risk their lives, for most of them 
have wives and children to strive for, and to them their lives 
are dear. So no one stirs, but as the priest ceases to speak 
the women and men cross themselves and moan softlv, as 
if “keening” above the doomed sailor’s grave; and the 
moan rising upon the air is wafted wildly over the sea, ris- 
ing and falling in soft ululations until it dies away. Again 


BLOl\\ BLOW, 7'HOU W/jVVBA' WINDS ! 


359 


there is silence save for the sobbing of the sea, and the 
priest holding forth one hand towards the people, with the 
other reverentlv lifts his broad black hat and raises his 
eyes to Heaven. He is about to ask the benediction of 
the saints on that poor stricken soul who is beyond all 
human aid. Ere he can utter a word, there is a strange 
commotion among the crowd, and a figure advancing from 
their midst stands right before the priest. 

It is 'I'ruagh O’More. 

His face is rather pale, but in his eyes there is a strange 
cold light ; his manner is calm and cool as it has always 
been in danger He pauses, and raising his eyes to the 
priest’s face, says quietly, 

“ If your reverence will give me your blessing, I will 
go out.” 

Father Moy looks amazed, and, it must be confessed, 
rather grave. He has a tender regard for 'i'ruagh, espe- 
cially since he has heard his confession and knows some- 
thing of the load which oppresses his heart ; and, though 
being kind of heart, he is at all times eager to render 
assistance to those in distress, he seems to shrink from the 
idea of exposing Truagh to the terrible danger which he 
will incur by swimming out to the wreck. For although 
'Truagh ’s deformity makes him as buoyant as a duck in the 
water, the surging sea is full of danger, such as he can with 
difhcultv escape. 

At one time f'ather iMoy would not have hesitated : 
now it is different. 'Truagh has been ill, and though his 
health has been partially restored to him. his strength may 
not be sufficient to enable him to fight with such a sea. 
So placing his little fat hands on 'Truagh's shoulders, he 
looks admiringly into his face. 

“ ’Tis a brave boy that you are, God Almighty bless 
you !” he says ; “ but it isn't Father Mo}' that would be 
sending you out to your death.” 

But 'Truagh, affected by the kindl\' touch and gentle 
tones of the priest, replies with a sad smile, 

Sure, God knows I can’t drown ; if the man can swim 
a little to assist me, I will bring him to shore. Since he 
can get no other help I had better go.” 

Again the priest, looking seaward, hesitates ; again he 


THE DARK COLLEEK. 


360 

dissuades Truagh from his purpose, in vain. He is the 
only man on Eagle Island that can render assistance, and 
he will go. If he fails, and dies — what matters ? — the hand 
of God is already upon him, he has been told that he can- 
not live, and it will be only going a little while sooner. And 
the priest, knowing what he does, feels his heart fill with 
affection and pity as he looks at the pale resolute face, and 
hears the low despairing ring of the gentle voice. 

“What matters, indeed,” thinks Father Moy, “since in 
life the poor boy finds no peace, he would get blessed rest 
in the grave.” 

So at last yielding to Truagh’s solicitations, he stretches 
forth his little fat hands to bless him, and as he does so, the 
fingers rest with a gentle touch upon the bare bowed head, 
and the deep voice trembles with genuine emotion. 

As Truagh moves away, he perceives another face 
which is turned with a strange expression upon his. 
Throughout the scene Morna has stood apart, listening 
in silence; now coming forward, she clasps her hands 
about his arm and says softly, 

“ Truagh, eroo^ do not go, you will get 'your death ; 
and then, ah, God ! I shall have no one left in the world !” 

At the touch of her hand and the sound of her voice, 
Truagh flushes faintly, but his eyes light up with a sharp 
light as they gaze into her face, 

“ I shall not drown, Morna,” he says, “ do not be 
afraid.” 

But Morna trembling, and with tears in her eyes, dis- 
suades him still. 

“ You are not strong, you cannot pass the great waves ; 
you will never reach the shore again.” 

'Fraugh’s face lightens up with a look of contentment. 
It is something to hear even such words as these from her, 
uttered in so gentle a tone, and for a moment he seems to 
hesitate ; — then suddenly the past comes back to him in 
one flash, and all the happy light which illuminates his 
face fades away, and leaves it ashen white. He presses 
the cold fingers lying passively in his, and with one last 
look into the beloved face and "gentle tearful eyes, he turns 
away. Followed by many of the men, he descends to the 
shore below. 


/a'7V'A’C/::ss/oa: 


CHAPTER LIX. 

INTERCESSION. 

^T^HE wind has almost died away, and the heavily beat- 
J- ing rain has gradually subdued the raging of the sea. 
'Fhe breeze now blows in faint fitful puffs ; the heaviest 
rain has almost ceased, and a slight mist falls, while the 
ocean, still palpitating from the storm, sends up great black 
rollers, which come silently to the shore and break into 
wild surges about the base of the cliffs. 

When Truagh reaches the shore and stands upon the 
sands, the waves rising up like mountains shut the wreck 
from his sight, and the white foam covers the stones around 
his feet. Throwing off his outside garments, he stands 
for a moment watching the black masses rolling one after 
another towards the shore, then he suddenly plunges for- 
ward and dives beneath the first advancing waves. 

Holding convulsively by her father’s hand, Morna has 
descended the cliffs with the rest, and now she stands 
upon the shingle apart from the general group. Her heart 
is palpitating, her hands are burning, though her clothes, 
saturated with the rain, cling about her with a clammy 
touch which makes her shiver. She sees Truagh leap 
forward into the sea and sink beneath the ^rising waves, 
and as she does so, she grows faint and cold. Ever since 
her childhood, Truagh has been her companion and dear- 
est friend, and since this great trouble came to her and she 
returned from the world alone, he has seemed even nearer 
to her than he had ever been before ; without him her life 
would have been dreary indeed. For a moment tears fill 
her eyes, and all the prospect before her grows dim — then, 
conquering the emotion which overmasters her, choking 
down the terror which rises in her throat, brushing away 
the moisture from her e\ es, she looks again at the sea. 

Truagh has risen again to the surface of the water, and 
with his face turned seaward is breasting the waves with 
an ease and buoyancy not possessed by any of the fisher- 


362 


THE DAE A' CO LEE EX. 


men on Eagle Island. Before him the billows rise, break- 
ing above him, here and there smitten into sea-smoke, but 
he rises and falls with them, as they rise and fall. As she 
watches him, she feels the warm blood pulsing through her 
veins; forgetful of the bitter wind and the clammy fingers 
of the rain, she stands and watches with her wet garments 
clinging about her, and her pale cheek liushed to fire. 
Perhaps, after all, the saints will be kind, and I'ruagh 
will come back ; and if that is so — if //is life is spared, it 
seems to Morna that her cross will be less heavy for her 
to bear. So she stands gazing as he floats upon the moun- 
tainous waves, or falling with them fades from sight. Fur- 
ther and further he goes from the shore, nearer and nearer 
he approaches to the wreck. At last he enters the sheet 
of foam which spreads around the black hull, and rising 
breast high in the water, is about to grasp the vessel’s side, 
now visible, but lying low down amidst the waves. At this 
moment a great black roller breaks above the wreck, the 
decks are buried in foam, and d'ruagh is swept away again 
towards the shore. For a space he lies floating upon 
the water, then he again approaches the wreck. Around it 
the waves are stilled now, and the decks are visible again. 
After a few swift strokes he clutches at the side, and with 
some difficulty scrambles upon the deck. Again the 
waters rise as if to beat him down, another wave curls on 
high, but ere it can break Truagh has risen above the deck 
and clings with all his strength to the broken mast, just 
below the man whom he has gone to save .... 

.... A wild cry rings out in the air, then all is silent. 
What was that cry ? again and again it rings with sad echoes 
in Morna’s ears, and m-akes her heart beat, her head 
whirl round. 

Gathered in a group, the fishermen stand straining eyes 
seaward, and uttering low cries of wonder. Out on the 
waters, beaten and smitten by the waves, Truagh swims 
alone towards the land, while beyond, high up on the bro- 
ken spar of the wreck, still clings the figure of the ship- 
wrecked man ! 

The white mist of rain still falls, but the wind has almost 
ceased to blow ; jagged clouds drift slowly across the sky, 
and the waves sinking down with a troubled motion fill the 


rx77<:RCEss/oy. 


3^3 


Air with a murmuring surcease of sound. High up on the 
cliffs, groups of women and children, who since the day 
has broken and the wind fallen have left their homes and 
made their way seaward, stand shivering and moaning in 
dread, d'heir eyes are fixed upon the groups who gather 
darkly below, and on the black wreck far beyond. In the 
air there is the faint low murmur of wailing voices, though 
no one speaks. The fishermen, grouped upon the strand, 
stand looking at the sea in silence, watching the wild strug- 
gles of the figure battling with the great waves ; but when 
Truagh, faint and weary, rising upon the crest of a billow, 
is washed in alive and alone upon the strand, they gather 
around him with exclamations of angry surprise. 

His face is ashen white, his lips are bloodless, his man- 
ner is subdued and very calm, but in his eyes there is a 
look which the fishermen cannot comprehend. To all their 
eager questions he makes no reply. For a minute he sits 
upon the shingle, drawing his hand across his eyes and 
pushing back his wet hair ; then, for he is trembling vio- 
lently with the bitter cold, he draws on his coat above his 
saturated garments to keep off the chilly touch of the air. 

Out yonder in the sea the wreck is still visible, and the 
man is still seen clinging to the broken spar ; but at every 
touch of the rising waves the hull seems about to sink 
beneath the water. The women upon the cliffs above break 
into wild moans, and Morna, crossing the shingle, joins the 
wondering group upon the strand. 

At sight of her, Truagh’s manner becomes stranger still, 
and when, putting her hands upon his arms she questions 
him as the fishermen have done before, he shrinks from her 
touch. The marked peculiarity of his manner and his pro- 
tracted silence increase the wonder in every face ; but when 
the priest asks impatiently if he has seen a “ sea-spirit,” 
he shakes his head. 

‘‘ No, your reverence, I have seen a living man ! ” 

“Then why in the name of all the saints didn’t you 
bring him to shore ? ” asks the exasperated priest. 

Truagh replies, 

“ Because, Father Moy, ’tis not ?}iy hand that will save 
fhat man from the just wrath of Almighty God ! ” 

The words are spoken clearly and distinctly, though 


rilE DARK COLLEEAK 


364 

in a low tremulous voice. As he listens, the priest’s coun- 
tenance grows very grave ; and on the faces of the fish- 
ermen who gather around the look of wonder deepens. 
Placing his little fat hand on Truagh's shoulder, the 
priest looks reprovingly into his face. 

“ What is all this about, 'Pruagh O’More ? ” he asks 
firmly. “ What man is it that you have left yonder among 
the waves of the salt sea } ” 

And in his habitually calm manner, Truagh replies 
again, 

‘‘ It is a man that will drift to his death before a hand 
from Eagle Island will be put out to save him ! ” 

'Phe fehermen, half divining something of the terrible 
truth, glance uneasily from the violently swaying wreck to 
the pale face of 'Pruagh. The priest frowning darkly, is about 
to speak again, when another voice interrupts him. Stand- 
ing upon the strand amidst the foam of the sea, Dunroon 
says steadily in a low voice, 

“ Speak out, "Pruagh ! Say, was it the Frenchman that 
you left out there ? ” 

Raising his eyes to the dark face before him, 'Pruagh 
nods a silent assent. 

As he does so, a wild cry rises from the startled group 
upon the shore. Although for some minutes past the island- 
ers have guessed something of the truth, rightly divining 
that only one man on earth would have the power of exciting 
vengeance in the gentle soul of Truagh O’More, yet now 
that the truth is actually laid bare to them they stand 
aghast. Even the priest, whose features have darkened 
ominously, can find no word to utter, but his keen eyes 
searching the group before him rest with a questioning 
look upon the one white face. 

Morna now comprehends the truth. She has heard her 
father ask the question, she has seen 'Pruagh nod assent, 
but she neither speaks nor moves. Her face and lips turn 
white as those of the dead ; and a sad pathetic light steals 
into her gentle eyes as she turns them upon the sea. At 
this moment, she does not seem fully able to realize what 
has taken place ; her sorrow has been so silent, so endur- 
ing, it does not seem to have reached its climax yet. A 
strange vision darkening across her soul obscures the re- 


hVTERCESSlO.y. 


365- 

ality of the present, all the figures about her seem fading 
away to the low music of the water, even the rising waves 
of the sea tremble in a visionary mist ; and her heart turns 
faint and cold. 

Suddenly the faintness passes away, her heart beats 
quickly, though still her lips and cheeks are cold. A voice, 
which she knows to be her father’s, rises again upon the air. 

“ Truagh O’More, you did well,” he says, ‘‘sure the 
curse of God itself would wither up the hand that would 
help that man ! ” 

Suddenly, turning her face from the ocean, Morna 
speaks. Her features are darkly animated — her voice full 
of wild pain. 

“ That is not true,” she says, “ ’tis not the will of the 
good God that you should do such murder ; but you are 
cruel, heartless men, and Truagh, you are like the rest. I 
thought you had a kind heart, but you have not — no, not 
one of you. Mother of God ! what harm did he ever do 
to you, that you should be so cruel ? ” 

Then stretching her hands towards the ocean, she 
cries out for help. “ Have mercy, great God in heaven, 
have mercy ! do not let him die ! ” 

Ringing piteously upon the air her voice dies away. 
There is no answer ; only the waves breaking with a dull 
roar upon the strand, and the wind sighing softly amidst 
the crags. 

Across Truagh’s heart there lies a load of intense 
agony. Little does she know the racking pain which her 
wild words inflict upon him, still less can she comprehend 
the terrible feelings which are struggling in his breast ; as 
she gazes into his eyes, she does not even see the look of 
torture which flashes across his face ere it fades. 

Out at sea, sinking every moment lower and lower 
beneath the waves, still lies the hull of the ship. The 
broken masts seem giving way, so violently do they swing 
from side to side. Once they dip down so low that they 
seem to be sinking beneath the waters ; and as they do so, 
another shriek rings out clearly upon the air. 

Morna’s eyes dilate with terror. Uttering a low 
hysterical cry, she again, with piteous entreaties, implores 
their mercy and their help. 


366 


THE DARK COLLEEN. 


Still no voice replies. 

Dogged in their determination, invincible in their 
hatred, the fishermen shake their heads, and Dunroon 
clenches his fist with a terrible look upon his face. 

“ Hold your peace, Morna ! *’ he angrily exclaims ; 
‘‘ let the Frenchman set foot on the shore of Eagle Island, 
and as sure as there is a God in Heaven we’ll settle old 
accounts ! ” 

Morna makes no reply ; but trembling from head to 
foot, she clings appealingly to the priest. 

Hitherto Father Moy has stood a silent spectator of 
the scene. It is not his custom to interfere with the wild 
vagaries of his people unless he sees good cause. Had 
Morna’s prayers succeeded in softening their harsh re- 
solves, he would have said nothing; now she has failed, it 
is time for him to interfere. 

“ Shame upon you for a set of poor benighted savages,” 
he vehemently exclaims. “ Would you see' a fellow-crea- 
ture die, and never lift a hand to save him ? Is it so that 
you follow Father Moy’s counsel, and carry out the com- 
mands of Almighty God ! ” Then fixing his eyes severely 
upon Truagh, he ’continues, “ Truagh O’More, you’ve done 
a deed this day that will follow you to your grave, and 
beyond it too for that matter. Shame and confusion to 
you ! what if the man has gone wrong, — is it for you to 
judge him.? No, by the Lord that judges quick and dead. 
If you had found the Devil himself clinging to yonder 
ship, you would be bound to bring him in to shore f” 

As he ceases, Morna sobs convulsively, and gratefullv 
presses his hand. 

“You were always good to me. Father Mov. Now 
you say it is right, they will not let him die ! ’' 

To her words and eloquent pleading looks the fisher- 
men are dumb. Dunroon’s face clouds over with a fixed 
look of stubborn hatred. But when Morna, still sobbing 
piteously, cries out again for help, two cold hands take 
hers, while a low voice murmurs in her ear, 

“ \i you wish it, Morna ei'oo, 1 will go out again.” 

The struggle has been hard, but at length" it is over, 
'rruagh’s great love for her has conquered all, and though 
liis heart is almost bursting, he forces into his face a fixed 


DRIFT-WEED. 


367 

look of calm. Still Monia does not understand. Con- 
vulsively pressing his hands, she looks into his face with a 
bright look of gratitude which rends his'heart. 

“ You will go, you will save him ! Ah, Truagh, the 
good God will reward you, and I will pray for you ! I 
could not bear to see him die like that ! ” 

The expression on his face does not alter, but his eyes 
linger tenderly on hers, and all the life blood seems eb- 
bing slowly from his veins. With a terrible effort he re- 
leases her hands, and is about to turn seaward when a low 
cry escapes from the lips of those around. The wreck, 
which has been swaying with great violence, suddenly 
seems to part. A huge black wave, rising far out at sea, 
breaks into a white cloud over the reef. The whole ship 
rises, then, as the wave rolls on, it is driven a few yards 
forward, and finally, heeling over, it sinks for ever down 
to the bottom of the sea. 

‘‘ May God have mercy upon his poor soul !” cries 
Father Moy, hurriedly crossing his breast. 

Truagh fixes his eyes with strange entreaty upon 
Morna, who, oblivious now to all around her, stares in a 
sort of fascination at the breaking sea. She seems paral- 
yzed, but suddenly, as the ship heels forward and disap- 
pears, a low cry escapes her lips and she falls a lifeless 
body to the ground. 


CHAPTER LX. 

DRIFT-WEED. 

days have passed since the last wreck sank upon 
-J- the (fi'eag na Luing, and again a wild group is gath- 
ered upon the shore of Eagle Island. 

d'he day is fine ; one of those bright clear winter days, 
when the air is full of cool perfumes, when the sea breaks 
with a low clear music upon the shore, and when the 
hills stand clear and pure as icicles against a cloud- 
less sky. The earth is still and very fair. The water 
washing placidly about the dark grey cliffs, stretches 


THE DARK COLLEEN. 


368 

calm as any mirror, and no sound rises upon the air but 
the faint cry of sea-birds and the murmur of human 
voices. 

Gathered together upon the beach, the fishermen 
stand in consultation. Behind them, listening with 
strange interest to what is going on, are the caiiliaghs and 
young colleens. A little apart from the group lies, drip- 
ping wet from the sea, stretched upon his back on the 
strand, with his sightless eyes fixed vacantly upon the 
smiling sky, the corpse of a man. 

It is not upon this, however, that the fishermen fix 
their eyes. 'Fhey are gazing in sullen silence upon the 
face of Morna, who stands before them white as death. 

Her manner is subdued, but on her face there are 
sharp cruel lines of sorrow. She looks like one worn and 
weary unto death. At times the tears come into her eyes 
tremble upon her lashes and fall ; but quickly’ brushing 
them away, she looks at the men with a pathetic entreaty 
which almost softens their hearts to pity. 

Sure he is dead, he cannot harm you now, and it is 
cruel to refuse to bury him like any Christian man. We 
will take him up into the house until to-morrow, and then 
Father Moy will say a prayer above his grave.” 

As she speaks, the air is filled with the musical 
“ keening of the assembled women, but the faces of the 
men grow wofully dark. 

“ Put that man in holy ground } sure the very dead 
would stir, and the grass would wither above him, and 
the crops of the earth would rot in the ground for ever- 
more. Tis only fit that he should be cast back into the 
sea.” 

Listening in silence. Morna shrinks as from a succes- 
sion of cruel blows. Then she takes her father’s hand 
and raises her face to his. 

“ You do not think like that ? ” she asks, crying bitter- 
ly, you will not close the door against the stranger, dead 
or living ; but you will give him shelter until to-morrow, 
when he can be buried up yonder on the hill.” 

Looking down into her agonized face, Dunroon pauses ; 
then there gleams from his eyes a look of superstitious 
hate. 


DR7in-]VEElK 


3 ^>9 

“ What 1 liave said I liold to, Morna. 'I'ho man mav 
lie there till the Judgment Day-^he'll never find shelter 
under roof of mine.’’" 

A spasm of pain contracts her features, she drops her 
father's hand and cries wildly, 

‘ It is a sin against the good God ! one would not serve 
a poor drowned beast like that ! you are cruel ! cruel ! ” 

Dunroon, laying his heavy hand upon her shoulder, 
draws her gently to him. 

“ Sure it isn’t for you to be defending him, my colleen 
dubh ; what good did he ever bring to you ? Didn’t he 
win you away from your home, and then send you back 
with a broken heart ? didn’t he sow darkness and sorrow 
where he found brightness and peace? didn’t he turnon 
the hand that tended him, and bring desolation to the house 
that sheltered him ? But ’tis not so he’ll do again; we 
have peace and plenty in the land, and we will keep them 
and never risk a famine again for the sake of a drowned 
Frenchman, with all his sins upon his head. Sure he’ll 
never lay in holy ground ; ’tis better just to cast him where 
many a better man has gone before, right into the salt 
sea.” 

Still as a statute Morna now stands, making no reply. 
'Fhe soft breath of the sky kisses her pale cheek, and the 
light falls softly upon the drooping lids of her eyes ; the 
air is full of brightness and low sweet murmuring sounds. 
She neither feels nor hears ; she is stricken dumb with 
horror. Her soul seems paralyzed, her senses dazed. She 
knows that he whom she has loved so fondly is dead, and 
with characteristic submission, she has been able to bow 
her head and murmur, Thy will be done ! ” Were he 
to lie up there in the little graveyard, she feels that her 
troubled soul might at last be at peace. But to have him 
shunned and spurned, to see him thrown away into the sea 
like any miserable weed, that indeed is hard to bear. If 
he has sinned, then surely he has had a terrible punishment, 
and it is not fit that both God and man should turn so bit- 
terly against him. In her heart, so saddened now by deso- 
late regret, still linger traces of that passionate tenderness 
which he first aroused there, and as she stands with her 
white face fixed, her eyes heavy and glazed, her heart is 

24 


37 ^ 


TJIK DARJC rOLLEEX. 


tom with love and pity for the form lying so helpless at 
her feet. ' 

At last the calm passes away, she fails on her knees, 
clasps her hands around the neck of the corpse, and utters 
a wild shriek which the women echo and prolong. 

‘‘ You shall not cast him away I ’’ she cries. ‘‘If you 
do, I will cry out to God against you. If he was left in the 
cold sea, I should never I'est again .... I loved him . . . 
he was my husband. O/i^ mavouniecn cushla machreel''' 
she adds, gently touching the ghastly face, “ God will curse 
the hand that tears you from me to cast you away.’’ 

Yhe women cross themselves, and wring their hands 
and moan ; but the men continue to gaze doggedly at the 
tortured girl. No hut on Eagle Island shall shelter him — 
they swear it ; — and no piece of consecrated ground shall 
be given for him to rest in, but like any beast he shall be 
cast away or left to rot upon the shore. 

“ Shame and confusion to you for a lot of poor-spirited 
savages that have less hearts than the beasts of the field ! ” 
suddenly interposes a voice, and Father Moy strides into 
the midst of the group. His head is thrown up very high, 
his black eyes flash angrily upon the faces around him, and 
his little hands are constantly running up and down the 
sleeves of his coat. “ Is it this way that you think Chris- 
tian men ought to behave ^ Is it this way that you think 
to please God Almighty, and the saints of Heaven ? Does 
it never strike you now,” he continues, screwing up his eyes 
in a meditative manner, “ that to-morrow, — or the day after 
maybe, — or any day in the year, — that any one oi you may 
be lying dead like that poor devil yonder, — God forgive me 
for miscalling him ! — and that it’s your duty to do to him 
just what you’d expect any other living man to do to yon X' 

He pauses suddenly ; the women moan softly, the men 
look darker than before, but no one speaks. 

“ Well, boys } ” he continues, gazing uneasily around, 
“ isn’t there one of you — (mean-spirited bouchals that you 
are ! ) that’ll give the poor oo//een help — that’ll take that 
poor dead creature into the house and find him Christian 
burial ? Let the man step forward ; I promise him the 
blessing of Almighty God ! ” 

Again the priest pauses for a reply, but none comes. 


DR/FT-IVEED. 


37 ‘ 

Morna cries oiil for pity. At last a figure, advamang from 
the crowd, takes her two cold hands in his. 

“ Since all the other huts are closed against him. lie 
shall come to mine, and we ourselves will wake his soul to 
glory : and as he cannot lie in holy ground, wliv we will 
bury him here above high water mark, and Father' Moy will 
say a prayer above his grave, and give him the forgiveness 
and the blessing of God ! ” 

It is Truagh who speaks ; it is Truagh’s eyes which fall 
before the tender, grateful light which shines upon his 
face ; it is upon Truagh’s neck that Morna, overcome bv 
the first kind voice, falls sobbing like a child. 

'Fhe women again and again cross themselves hurriedly, 
the men break into loud exclamations of anger ; but 
Father Moy, violently slapping Truagh on the back, ex- 
claims, 

“ Eedad, Truagh O’More, I heard at one time that ^ 
’twas a say-spirit you were — but now, believe wf, you’re ; 
the only Christian man on Eagle Island ! ” ‘ 

The angry voices of the fishermen and the approving 
tones of Father Moy, are alike unheeded by Truagh. All 
that he feels is the form in his arms, all that he hears are 
the low convulsive sobs which escape the lips that are 
pressed upon his shoulder. 

Deep darkness hangs again above the earth. The 
black sky looms down upon the sea, and the ocean surges 
with a gentle moan. The hills are black as night, there 
is no soul abroad, all the islanders are at rest, and no ray 
from any cabin-window now penetrates the dense gloom. 
But in the house on the cliff, a light glimmers faintly, shin- 
ing in fitful gleams across the sea. In the kitchen of 
Truagh’s hut the firelight upon the hearth fills the room 
with a bright red glow, irradiating Truagh’s face as he sits 
in the ingle, looking blankly at the fire. In the inner 
room burns an oil-lamp, casting its faint gleams upon two 
figures who linger there. 

Stretched upon a w^ooden table, still clad in his clothes 
saturated with the salt water, lies Captain Bisson, and 
above him, bending lo\v, reading every line of his face, 
stands Morna his wife. Her face is white as that of the 
dead man before her ; her features fixed, and in her eyes 


37 ^ 


THE DARK COL LEEK 


there is a look half of sorrow, half of pity^ fading into a 
look of love. P’or Death, which equals all men, and softens 
all hearts, yea, the hardest and most cruel, has touched 
her gentle nature ; and as she stands looking at the calm, 
beautiful, silent face, the memory of all her endurance, all 
her sorrow and shame, fades away, and there abides before 
her vision now, only the memory of that other time, when 
the divine kiss of love was given to her by these lips, and 
when these blue eyes, now so fixed and vacant, shone with 
a heavenly splendor on her own. 

She is shedding no tears, the fountains of her soul are 
drv, 3'et her anguish is none the less intense. Pitiful, most 
pitiful is it for her to look upon those rigid features, to 
gaze into those glazed, vacant orbs, and to know that that 
soft, fond voice is now silenced for ever. Never again will 
she see those cold features light up into the old smile, those 
dim eyes sparkle with the old light. He is dead . . . 
and with his fading has faded for her the last brightness 
of the world. When all the other human creatures have 
tied as from a pestilence, she still stands gazing into the 
face, clasping the icy cold fingers. But for her and for 
'Pruagh, he would have been cruelly cast away. 

Around her all is quiet, but now and then the sound of 
'Pruagh stirring in the kitchen strikes upon her ear. Dark 
shadows crowd about her, cast by the flickering lamp-light ; 
but no living form is seen. 

Presently a low sob escapes her lips. 'Phe clammy 
fingers still lie heavily in her warm palm, she bends low 
above the face to imprint one last kiss upon the cold blue 
lips. As she does so something attracts her atention, and 
she pauses. 'Phe lamplight, falling full upon the figure 
before her, discloses a small glittering ornament attached 
to a gold chain, lying upon the corpse’s breast. It is a 
locket of gold. Ere she touches the cold lips with her own, 
Morna lifts the locket and opens it ; within it she sees the 
picture of a young girl with bright blue eyes and golden 
hair. As Morna gazes, there passes across her dark face a 
look of unutterable pain. Shivering, .she drops the clammy 
hand, and shrinks back with superstitious fear from the 
dearl form. At a glance, she has recognized the face in 
the picture, anti bcneatii .she has read these words : 


DRIFY'-WEED, 


373 


Q:npl)raeic Uisson 


Silently, and very sadly she replaces the locket on the 
dead man’s breast ; then withdrawing from the room, she 
enters the kitchen and sits down on the form by Truagh’s 
side. Creena, coming from the shadow, crouches at the 
girl’s feet and presses her hand. ’But Morna makes no 
sign. She stares at the fire in dull, dumb pain. Thus these 
three figures sit through the long watches of the night, and 
silently “ wake” the soul of the drowned man. 


THE END, 












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We are Importers and Manufactures of 

English Brass and Iron Bedsteads, Cribs, &c. 

We offer on exhibition at our ware-rooms the largest and choices 
line of these goods to be found in this country. Our goods combine 
elegance, strength, and durability, and are in easy in cost. 

We manufacture Bedding of Every Biscription, guarantee every 
article we sell, and represent goods as they are. Mattresses of every 
grade, from the Purest Curled Horse Hair to the Palliasse; Spring 
Beds of various kinds. Feather Pillows, Bolsters, &c. Our feathers 
are thf)roughiy cured, and cannot smell. By buying direct from the 
manufacturers, you save one or more pVofits. 

W. S. FOGG & SOW. 

35 'West 14th St., 395 Pearl St., and 34 'Vanderwater St., N. 7. 





Oval Boxes, B4 Pills, Round, 14 Pills. At all Druggists, and 224 William St„ N. T. 


a 2 


o 

cd 



© o 
n ^ 


Mme. E. COOLEY ROSS, 

204 WEST 23(1 STREET, 

Millinery & Dress Making, 

Will return from Paris the middle of August, 
with latest Parisian Styles. 

MOURNING a PATTERN BONNETS, 

CAJPS & FISCHUES, 
LADIES’ OWN MATERIAL USED. 


We cordially solicit a call, and warrant satis- 
faction. 

M. HEATH, Agt. 


SECHET or BEAUTY. 


HOW TO BEAUTIFY THE COMPLEXION. 


pmDEl^r^'iTluaTii all Wcrncn know that it is beauty rather than ffenins 

^hich all g ncM-atioi.s 1 avo woisliiw.e.i In the s^x CanTt e 

SmSm/i/nV' r;.''’ of woman's time and aiem 

lion shouM be (liiec ( dtotlie means of develo inir and nre- 

sptax Of the intellect of worn' n, they speak criticallv tamelv 

tilul woman, tiieir language and their eyes kindle with an en- 
thusiasm which shows them to be iroionndlv, if not ridicu- 
lously meaiiicst. It is ajiart of the natural sagacity of women 
to pei ceivj all this an{l therefore employ every allowable art 
to become the goudess of that adoration. Pieachiothecon- 
trai y, as we may, against t ie ar s emplove i by women for 
enchanting their b auty, there still stauds t. ecb Vnal fact, that 
thewoil l docs not i refer ihes )eiety of an ugly woman of 
genius to that of a beauty of less intellectual acciuirements. 
The world lias yptal owed no higher mission to womenthan 
to be bejutiful, an l it would seem t at tue 1 idles of the present 
ago ar i carrying this ii'eaof the world to greater exiremes 
thanev r, lor .Ml women now to whuiii nature has denied tlie 
huiN mycomrexWforufe, talismanic p w rof beauty, supp y the deficiency by the use 
pUTLAiKD'sBLooMOFYaxmi of a most dclightiul toiler preparation, known as the 

\mTn aYcv^y “BLOOM OF YOUTH,” 

Which has lately been introduced i ifo this country by George W. Laird. It is a delicate 
beautifier, for removing tan, freckles, and discolorations Irom the skin, leavin»- the com- 
plexion clear, brilliant, and beautiful, the skin soft and smooth. With the assistance of 
this American invention of a Lady’s toilet, 

FEMALE BEAUTY 



IWAS OnEADFULLYAPBAl^ 
That HORRID fever vvtQULO 


Is destined to p’ay a larger part in the admiration of men and the ambition of women than 
all arts employed since her creation. The most, delightful and harmless Toilet preparation 
has been established over ten years during that time over O' E million ladies have 
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Uaing this invaluabio Toilet acquisition. 

One of the most eminent physicians of New York city, says: After carefully examin- 
ing the analysis prepared by the 

Chemist of the Metropolitan Board of Health, -of the Genuine 
LAIRD’S BLOhM OF YOUTH,” I pronounce the preparation 
harmless, and Bnitirely Free from any Ingredient Injurious to 
Health or Skin. Ladies, Beware of Worthless Imitations of 
Geo.W. Laird’s “Bloom of Youih.” 


The unprecedented success of GEORGE W. LAIRD’S “BLOOM OP YOUTH” has in* 
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genuine preparation has achieved gr at populaiity during the last ten years it has been 
in use. Mr. Laird being determined to rid the market of counterfeits, an 1 in order to 
protect the public fiom imposition, and to prevent their purciiasing worthless imitations 
of his reliable and harmless beautifier of the skin, has p aced the label of this preparation 
under the charge of the United States Government, and their engraver has prepared a 
design and engraved the same on steel plates, at a large expense. The new label wdl em- 
brace the United States Internal Revenue Stamo. Any person or persons counterfeiting 
this label will be liable to imprisonment bv the United States authorities. Beware of worth- 
less imitations. SEE THAT THE REVENUE STAMP is printed on the front label, and 
the name G, W. LAIRD is stamped in the glass on the back of each bottle. NONE OTHER 
GENUINE. This Uellghtiul preparation is 


FOR SATLKJ BY 


Druggists and Fancy Goods Dealers, 

Depot; 83 JOHN STREET, NEW YORK. 


« eRUT OFFER 

THIS MONTH !!! 

8PECBAL SALE OF PSANOS 

AND ORGANS 

ON INSTALLNIENTSr 

(100 NEW PIANOS AT PER MONTH.\ 
'100 NEW ORGANS AT ^5 PER MONTH.' 

PRIOES EKTHEIilELy LOW ! < 

OLD INSTRUMENTS TAKEN IN PART 
.PAYMENT. AJLSO EARGE ASSORTMENT of 

SECOND HAND PBANOS 

'20 DIFFERENT MAKERS, INCEUDLNG 
STEIN WAY, WATERS, CHICKERING and 
iWEBER, 

AT GEEAT BARGAINS. 

SIX OCTAVE PIANOS (suitable for be^» 
ners) §40, S50 §00. SEVEN OCTAVES, §90,'- 
§120, §150, upward. BEAUTIFUD UP- 
RIGHT, §1<55— BARGAIN. ORGAN, §35,* 
O STOPS §55. PIANOS AND ORGANS TO, 
RENT IN CITY AND COUNTRY. 

HORACE WATERS &CO: 

' 826 Broadway, Cor. 12th Street, New York, j 



Non-alcoholic, yet 
and Invigorating, Bright, 
Thirst-allaying, 

Digester and 
Tonic. 


The 
Greatest 
Health and 
Strength Creating 
Beverage offered. 
AskforZOEDONE everywhere. 
Zoedone Bureau, 27 PARK PLACE, N. Y. 


AD VERTISEMENTS. 


BEST EBITIOlSrS 

^ OP 

STANDARD FICTION. 


ELIOT’ 8 (GEORGE) COMPLETE WORKS. 

Lovell’s Popular Edition. Printed from large clear type, new elec- 
trotype plates, uniform in style with Lovell’s editions of Dickens, 
Thackeray and Scott. The only complete edition published in this 
country. 


I. Middlemarch. 

II. Daniel Deronda. 
ni. Romola. 
rv. Adam Bede. 

V. Felix Holt. 

VI. The Mill on the Floss. 


VII, Scenes from Clerical Life, and 
Silas Marner. 

VIII. Theophrastus Such— The Span- 
ish Gypsy, JubaC and other 
Poems. 


8 vol. 12mo. Cloth, black and gold Sl2 00 

Half calf 24 OO 


DICKENS'^ WORKS. Charles Dickens’ Complete 

Works. Lovells Popular Illustrated Edition. Printed from entirely 
new electrotype plates, large, clear type, with over 150 illustrations by 
Phiz, Barnard, Green, etc., etc. 


15 vols. 12mo. Cloth, gilt 22 50 

“ “ Cloth, gilt top 25 00 

Half Russia.... 32 50 

Half calf .* 45 00 

Any volume sold separately, in cloth 1 50 


8C0TT (SIR WALTER). THE WAVERLEY 

NOVELS. Lovells Popular Illustrated Editions. New electrotype 
plates, large clear type, uniform with Lovell’s editions of Dickens and 
Thackeray, making these the best and cheapest editions published. 

Library Edition. Printed on fine paper, fully illustrated, and beau- 
tifully bound, making this the best edition published. 24 vols. Cloth, 


gilt 30 00 

— The Same. Popular Edition. Two vols. in one. 

12 vols. Cloth, gilt 18 00 

Half calf 36 00 


THAQKERAY. AYilliam Makepeace Thackeray’s . 

Complete Works. Lovells Popular Illustrated Edition. This is an 
entirely new edition of Mr. Thackeray’s writings. It is beautifully 

E rinted from new electrotype plates, large clear type, on fine paper, 
andsomely illustrated with over 200 full-page illustrations by the 
author, Richard Doyle, and F. Walker, and bound in cloth, gilt. It is 
the only large-type edition printed in this country, and is the best, 
cheapest, and handsomest edition published. 


11 vols. 12mp. About 800 pages each. Cloth 16 50 

“ “ Half calf 33 00 

Any volume will be sold separately, bound in cloth, price 1 50 


JOHN W. LOVELL COMPANY, 

Publishers, 14 & 16 Vesey St., New York. 



GRAND, SQUARE AND UPRIGHT 


PIANOS; 



Superior ,td all others in Tone, Durability and. Workmanship ; 
have the endorsement of the leading Artists. First Medal of 
Merit and Diploma of Honor at Ceptennial Exhibition. 


Musical authorities and critics prefer the SOHMER RIANOS, 
and they are purchased by those possessing refined musical taste 
and appreciating the richest quality of tone and highest perfection 
generally in a 'Piano. 

SOHMER & CO., 

MANUFACTURERS OF 

fend; Square and UprigW Pianos, ' 

149 to 155 EAST 14th ST.. /HEW' YORK:' 












